


The Monarchy of Gotham -series-

by SlytherinPride2292



Series: The Monarchy of Gotham [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Cross post from FFnet, F/F, F/M, I love her to death though, Jim Gordon has a sister, Love, M/M, Multi, OFC is Bisexual, OFC is a potty mouth, Oswald has a signficant other starting from pilot episode, She low key has a thing for Barbara Kean but that comes later, Smut, Smut is still smutty though, The other installments are in third person POV to tell the story better, This entire series is Nygmobblepot positivity so M/M/F in later installments, This story and the next is in first person POV, Trigger warnings in chapters, Trigger warnings mentioned in story, coarse language throughout, trigger warnings throughout
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 558,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24827794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinPride2292/pseuds/SlytherinPride2292
Summary: In this story, Oswald Cobblepot has a signficant other (OFC) from the get-go of the pilot. This story follows Gotham's episodes while also correcting subplot holes in the future as well as adding more character depth that I felt we all missed. Nygmobblepot positive in future installments. OFC is bisexual, and is Jim Gordon's sister. I love their relationship. This series has smut, devotion, angst, major character deaths throughout, and trigger warnings are denoted in the beginning of chapters as needed.
Relationships: Barbara Kean/Original Female Character(s), Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma/Original Female Character(s), Oswald Cobblepot/Original Female Character(s), Tabitha Galavan/Barbara Kean
Series: The Monarchy of Gotham [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795861
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	1. Penguin's Weakness

**Author's Note:**

> This first 'chapter' is the first installment in my series. I've put all the chapters in the story as one chapter to ease the burden of uploading. :) Enjoy XD

Title: **Penguin's Weakness**  
Chapters: 25, Words: 83,651

* * *

**Chapter 1: He's Still Alive**

_I could do it_.

The thought occurs to me almost out of nowhere. Well, not completely out of the blue either. It wasn't the first time it has crossed my mind.

_It wouldn't take long._

I stood on the roof of my 20-floor apartment building. There was hardly any wind, and the breeze that whispered through my hair was inviting. It had just started to sprinkle, the sky warning Gotham that it would soon open its arms. A roll of thunder accompanied the breeze, greeting my ears like a long-lost friend. Like any other moment as this, the storm would pass but not without suffering some destruction.

Standing on the edge, on the brink of the abyss, knowing all it took was just stepping off the ledge to end it all. I felt light-headed with the knowledge of how quickly I could die, how brief the fall would be. And I started laughing.

_I could do it. Take one step off the ledge...just one step, that's all._

How easy it was! The fall itself would be liberating, and I would not be able to stop it from happening. The chances of me living after jumping from this height was about 1 in a 100. Good odds in my opinion.

"What are you doing, Sylvia?"

The excitement that I had been feeling slightly died as I turned slowly to see my brother standing just a few feet away. The one and only James Gordon here to save yet another life. His face...how worried and concerned he looked. He held a gun—his gun—in his hand, probably having pulled it out from instinct.

"Thinking." I answered quietly, then I turned to look down.

"Why are you up here?" Jim asked gently, sheathing his weapon. He held out his hand to me. "You know you don't want to do this."

"I know that, do I?" I asked softly, still staring down at the looming traffic below.

Bright lights, all the street lamps were on. Cars bustled, and restaurant neon signs indicating they were open flashed like Christmas tree lights. I smiled in spite of myself. Honestly, I had not felt so relieved, so free up until this point.

"You're hurting, I know." Jim said quietly, nodding. "I know you are. But look, this isn't the way to go."

"You're right. Maybe you should bring me to the pier and shoot me."

Jim frowned as I carefully moved away from the ledge, approaching him.

He knew what I was talking about, even without me mentioning anything about Oswald Cobblepot.

"Is that why you're up here?" asked Jim incredulously, coming closer. He gently touched my shoulders, like he was making sure I wasn't physically injured in any other way.

Physically, I was fine.

"You took him from me, Jim." I barely managed a calm voice.

"Who?"

"YOU KNOW WHO!" I shouted; my voice carried over the rooftops as I shoved him away.

Jim stared at me.

"You and Cobblepot…." Jim whispered in disbelief.

I nodded.

"You didn't tell me…"

"Of course, I didn't tell you; you wouldn't have approved," I remarked harshly.

I turned and looked down at the ledge once more. Being angry at my brother for dispatching my boyfriend was not going to replace what I'd lost. I knew that, more than anyone. Oswald and I had been together for over half a year, but those months had been…. magical. He had been an umbrella boy for Fish Mooney, but I saw much, _much_ more in him. More than he even saw in himself.

And Jim shot him at the pier. It didn't take long for the rumor to spread, and the rumor itself—as a rumor was in Gotham—could be fraudulent but I didn't hear a denial.

"Sylvia…."

"Come near me, Jim, and I swear to god…."

"You'll jump?"

"Don't tempt me."

"Sylvia, I'll tell you something because you need to know more than anyone, but it needs to stay between us, okay?"

"I'm done talking to you."

He snatched my wrist and pulled me far away from the ledge. I glared at him.

"I didn't kill him." Jim said sternly.

I stared at him, but I wanted to believe him, but Gotham's sewers told truths a lot better than some of the police officers in the GCPD. Jim Gordon wasn't a liar, really. He was a complicated man definitely, but a liar he was not. He was more honest than me—which in all honesty wasn't saying much. How else did I manage to find myself in the company of Fish Mooney and her charming subservient?

"Then why are there people saying that you did?" I questioned coldly, jerking my hand away from him. "People are talking, Jim. Why?"

"Falcone told me to do it," He said hoarsely. "Otherwise, he would come after Barbara, and you. He sold out Fish Mooney, Sylvia—and she was out for blood. And I was given a choice, and I made one. The _right_ one."

He held my shoulders, looking me dead in the eyes.

"You _have_ to believe me."

I pushed him away from me again. But despite my hatred for the moment, I believed him. I could believe that Fish Mooney wanted Oswald dead for his disloyalty. I could believe that Falcone would order Jim to kill any snitch that ratted out an underling. But there was no way I could believe that Jim would kill a man. That's something I could do but not Jim.

"Say you believe me." He whispered.

"I believe you."

He nodded, exhaling a sigh of relief. Then the overprotective part of him took over.

"You and Cobblepot…How did you even meet him—you know what, I don't want to know."

"Wise move, Sherlock," I said slyly.

"Should I be worried for your safety now that Cobblepot is gone?"

"No. He told no one that I knew he was going to the MCU."

"At least he did _that_ much," Jim said, rolling his eyes.

I smiled in spite of myself, tapping him on the shoulder.

"You'd like him if you only allowed yourself to, Jim."

"Not likely. He's a crook."

"So am I." I admitted, shrugging my shoulders.

Jim shook his head like he was pretending not to hear that I admitted to being a criminal. It wouldn't be a shock to him honestly. As children, he was a do-gooder, always stood up for people, always tried to walk the path of our father's righteousness. Personally, I took the road most traveled by in Gotham: crime. Mine were mostly petty—a mugging here, a robbery there; I never was caught but Jim always knew. I was the criminal that he couldn't arrest. Not because I was family but because I left no trace.

"Were you really going to jump?" Jim asked quietly as he took me in a warm embrace.

"No. I just come up here to think."

"Are you joking?"

"No. I really _do_ come up here to think. Less people, more room. The weather's nice."

"I wish you would just go to a library to do your thinking."

"What's the fun in that?" I asked as he escorted me from the roof and back to my apartment.

We stopped outside my apartment door, and he watched me unlock it and walk inside. He walked in and made a quick sweep to make sure there were no creepy crawlies hanging around to Shanghai my backside in any case they wanted to seek revenge on James Gordon for whatever he might have done to upset anyone else. It was like he had a bulls-eye on his back all the time.

"Will you be safe tonight?" Jim asked, closing the blinds of the windows and locking them.

"Always."

"Do you have protection?"

"Thanks to you, I keep a gun under my pillow and a knife under the bathroom sink," I said comically, smirking when he appeared mortified by the implication. When he saw my smile, he realized I was being humorous, but truthful. I had a gun in the bedroom and one underneath the kitchen table, as well as a knife in the bathroom.

"You have my number on speed dial if you need me."

"Yep—Number 2, like the little shit that you are."

Jim chuckled at my response, hugging me again. As he did, he looked over my shoulder and his body tensed. Following his gaze to a picture frame that sat on my entertainment center, the picture was of Oswald and me.

In the picture, Oswald and I sat in a photo booth, one of those generic cheap knock-offs found in carnivals, and we were smiling together, holding hands—he wore a suit per the usual, but I wore a yellow sundress. That was the first day we spent together away from all the crime and corruption of Gotham's underworld and he had shown me that, at least in him, chivalry was very much alive. And his shy nature had been merely a disguise for the true confidence and ambition that was inside of him.

The way we met had been completely a coincidence. In Fish Mooney's club of all places—one man called him a 'penguin' and while he had become murderous, I noted that the penguin was my favorite animal and he happened to be the most handsome one I'd ever seen. After the fact, he seemed disarmed by my initial attraction to him. One thing led to another, and this picture was the end result of a beautiful first date.

"You might want to hide that," said Jim darkly, referring to the picture. "If anyone sees that you had a connection to him—"

"They might come after me?"

"You know I hate it when you finish my sentences for me," He returned grumpily.

"Well, I'm right, aren't I?"

Disgruntled, he agreed.

"I would think you'd like me to keep that photo."

He cocked his head in confusion.

"If anyone sees this photo, they'll know that Oswald and I were an item. You, my wonderful brother, supposedly killed him so one would assume that I would want nothing to do with you." I told him pointedly. "They'll think I hate you so they won't worry about me helping you pursue Thomas and Martha Wayne's death. Case and point. Does that make sense?"

Jim smirked at me: "Always the clever one, aren't you?"

"Well, you have the muscle—I figure I could have the brains in the family."

"I can't have brains either?"

"You have some of the brains."

"I guess you can keep the picture then."

"I would keep the picture regardless of what you told me to do."

"You have a point." Jim resigned.

He sat down on the couch, looking exhausted but not with our discussion. I closed the door and sat next to him.

"So, who killed the Waynes if not Mario Pepper?"

"No idea."

"You'll find out, I imagine."

"For right now, people will have to assume that we caught the killer. That's the reason this whole thing happened. Two of the most powerful people in the town were gunned down in an alley, no regard for their status."

"You can't agree with framing some knucklehead for the murders?"

"No, but I can see why Mooney and Bullock did this. The Waynes were a symbol of hope for this town."

"Mario Pepper must have done something to warrant his death." I said apathetically.

Jim frowned saying, "That's what Bullock told me. This town is sick."

"Sick like me?"

"Not like you."

"Well, Jim…You're referring to crime as a sickness. You became this cop, this good guy who does what he can do to put shitty people behind bars. At some point, you're going to acknowledge that I am one of the shitty people."

"Have you killed anyone?"

"No."

"Have you betrayed your family?"

"Of course not."

"Would you tell me if you did?" Jim asked curiously.

"You know the answer to that."

He sighed, shaking his head: "Gotham has been sick for years, sicker than I thought. Mario Pepper was the fall-guy; I'm the pawn. And you. You'll need to be careful. If you want my opinion—"

"—You know I don't—"

"—You might want to loyal up with Falcone."

"With the man that ordered for my boyfriend to be killed?" I scoffed. "Yeah, that ties it up nicely. All that's missing is a pretty little bow. Great thinking, Jimbo."

"Maroni is a hothead. Falcone at least is old-fashioned; he'll make sure someone like you is treated with respect."

"Because I'm a lady?"

"Yes."

"News flash, Jim? My loyalty is not to Falcone or Maroni, or even Fish Mooney. They have done _nothing_ for me."

Jim frowned, knowing what I was ready to say.

"Don't tell me…." He said slowly.

"My loyalty is to Oswald."

"Damn it, I knew you were going to say that," Jim growled, standing to his feet. "He's a bit of a creep, isn't he?"

"As charming as they come," I returned calmly, standing. "And my loyalty is to you as well. You're my brother, and I love you. Oswald was—is—my boyfriend, and I love him too, and…"

I stopped short, cutting myself off but I'd already said it.

"You _love_ him?"

I smiled weakly.

I had thought of saying it aloud for weeks now, but I had been too afraid to say it. Too many times had my heart been broken, too many times had I felt the urge to say those forbidden words only to be told that we couldn't be together. The words themselves seemed taboo on my end, and only when I'd thought to speak them, it had been too late. But it just slipped out like that!

"How long have you known him?" Jim questioned, approaching me.

"Long enough," I replied coolly.

"Did anyone know you were together?"

"In a sense."

"Does Falcone know?"

"It's possible. A number of people have seen us together."

He glared at me.

"Am I being interrogated right now?" I said defensively, crossing my arms. "You know I don't like being questioned."

"So, you've been interrogated, have you?" Jim retorted curtly.

"Not by your department, but yes. Let's just get off the subject, huh?"

Jim sighed gruffly, turning away from me; he started pacing the kitchen.

"What, you're angry?" I asked, stepping forward. "You don't like the fact that I love him."

"Sylvia—"

"—Jim."

He pressed his lips together tightly, clenching his hands into fists.

"You need someone who will protect you," Jim said coldly. "He won't. He can't even protect himself."

"No shit—Falcone had him killed!"

" _I said I didn't kill him_!"

"That's not the point!" I snarled back. "The only reason I am not dead too is because of Oswald! Not you!"

Jim appeared disarmed: "What?"

"Oh, so _now_ you're interested, huh? Yeah," I said ironically. "While you and your fucking buddy, Harvey Bullock, were being strung up by your ankles in the meat locker, Falcone had a talk with Oswald. I was there. I was hoping to plead for his life, to make Falcone let him go." I frowned with embarrassment: "Falcone's a lot more intimidating in person."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing to me personally," I admitted. "But Falcone...he has this daunting presence, like he could order the world to kneel at his feet and everyone would be so willing to lick his boots. I didn't have much pull. Oswald told him a secret that would allow Falcone to maintain his empire."

"And in return? What did he ask in return?"

I smiled and lovingly answered: "That I would not be touched."

"How sweet." Jim retorted sarcastically, rolling his eyes and curling his lip. "Did he say anything else? What was the secret? What does Cobblepot know that Falcone needs in order to keep his empire?"

"There you go again," I said, gesturing to him. "You're back in that interrogation mode."

"I'm not interrogating you. I'm talking to you."

"No, you're talking _at_ me. And I resent you for it."

Jim sighed deeply, trying to maintain his patience. I was intentionally making it hard for him. After all, I'd nearly jumped to my death thinking that Oswald had died, only to realize that the love of my life had nearly met his demise by the hand of my own family. Admittedly, I was feeling just a little vindictive.

"And what secrets are shared between Oswald and Falcone will remain a mystery to both you and myself," I said carelessly. "When Oswald secured my safety much to Falcone's reluctance, I was ordered to leave…. I did. Unwillingly, of course. His men had to drag me away, kicking and screaming."

Jim was sitting back on the couch, listening to me. He was split between being the comforting brother that he wanted to be and the cop who needed to know everything, the cop that he felt he always had to be. Detective Gordon and my brother Jim were two completely different people, but two sides of the same coin. Just as I was the two-bit criminal who liked robbing gas stations and mugging old men, but I was still the little sister that tried to help in any way I could.

Jim put his stable still hand over mine. I was shaking with anger for reliving the moment in which I was forced to leave, thinking I would never see Oswald again. Sure, I felt fear—how could I have not? But the anger stayed with me, anger for not being able to keep Oswald safe. Call me a mother hen, what-have-you—I felt protective over any of my love interests. Some found it incredibly annoying and emasculating; but Oswald didn't seem to mind. He liked my nurturing spirit.

"I'm sorry for everything that I've put you through," said Jim quietly. "I'm sorry that you've had to experience all of this. But I told Oswald Cobblepot to never come back to Gotham. Odds are you will not see him again."

"I wouldn't stake your bets on that, but tell yourself what you need to, I guess, if it makes you feel any better."

He patted my hands out of comfort, and stood to his feet.

"If you hear anything about Thomas and Martha Wayne's murder from your turf, you'll tell me about it, won't you?" Jim asked softly.

"You know I will." I returned with a promise.

"Thanks."

He was about to apologize again but thinking it wasn't best, he smiled wistfully at me and then left my apartment.

My apartment was located on the tenth floor. A balcony connected it from the outside. I strolled out, feeling the breeze, and the light sprinkle of rain that continued to fall. A voice called from the back of my mind once more.

_I could do it._

I could…. but instead, I walked back inside. I was tired from the day's events.

In telling me what had happened to him, Jim had restored a reason for living.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Marked**

Knowing the truth about Oswald Cobblepot, the fact he was still alive had given new meaning for me. The grief of losing a loved one was replaced with the solid ambition of finding and helping him. To keep my brother safe, I made it a point to hate him whenever he and I spoke in present company. It wasn't hard; I just remembered how he used to pick on me when we were kids (taking my toys away, putting gum in my hair, that sort of thing) and played off of that. In the days that followed (while I tried finding where Oswald might have gone) I was still working for Fish Mooney, although I kept my distance.

After all, she had my boyfriend put on the slaughter with Falcone's blessing. If I didn't have to talk to her personally, I was more than grateful. Thankfully, the majority of my work was being a waitress, a bartender, and every now and then, she would grace me with her presence and ask me to spy on people for which I was paid. So, I had very little interaction with her.

As I served a patron their beverage, the guy left and was replaced by a large fellow who I immediately recognized as Butch Gilzean. He smiled at me knowingly—it was no shock to anyone that I was still angry for what happened to my Oswald. Mooney could pretend to everyone else that she hadn't ordered for him to be killed, but anyone on the inside of the Underworld knew better.

"How are you holding up?" Butch asked with a smile, winking at me.

"Fine until you showed your mug," I answered spitefully as I turned away to collect the glasses left by my drunken customers.

"Was it really that necessary to insult me."

"It wasn't necessary, but I couldn't suppress the urge," I responded, smirking at him. "You want anything or did you come over to antagonize?"

"Can it be both?"

"No."

"Don't know why you're so salty towards _me_ , babe. I didn't order for your boyfriend to be shot."

"Well, you weren't voting against the decision, were you?" I rounded coldly, leaning forward, hands on the counter.

"How's your brother dealing with it?"

"I've not spoken to him."

"That's put a damper between you two, huh? Anything I can help with?"

"You could try putting a bullet between your eyes; that might make me sleep a little easier," I suggested callously.

Butch chuckled again, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. Holding up his hands in surrender, he slowly backed away. My temper was flaring and he could see it. My brother and I were similar in that regard; the only difference was that I lacked the restraint. I didn't have a badge to keep my temper in line, see?

"I guess we'll talk later when you're less bitter."

"Sure." I scoffed.

He started on his merry way, speaking to Fish briefly. I ignored them and continued helping out patrons. Shortly after the fact, Harvey Bullock and my own sainted brother came into the brothel, looking as though they were on a mission. Something case-related, I would bet my life on it. Harvey stopped by the bar, smiling at me expectantly.

"See something you like there, Bullock?" I inquired coolly, wiping the counter with a towel.

"Maybe," said Bullock, smiling at me politely. "Maybe you know something that we don't?"

"What does that imply exactly?"

Bullock chuckled, elbowing Jim playfully in the ribs as he said, "You can tell she's definitely your sister."

"It's probably the lack of enthusiasm."

"Probably," Bullock agreed. "Know anything about a couple of child snatchers, taking children off the street?"

"That sounds like a question you should ask Fish," I said coolly, placing the towel on a rack and then leaning over the counter so Bullock leaned forward too—he had a look in his eye like he was interested in more than just talk of business.

So, I admit that I was good-looking. I had the right amount of curves and cleavage to leave a man wanting, and every now and then, I wore make-up even though I didn't need it. I inherited the same cold blue eyes that Jim possessed; the only difference in our appearances was that I'd inherited our mother's hair color: Ginger.

Maybe Bullock had a taste for redheads, or he was just playing with my unidentified emotions. Didn't matter though—my heart, eyes, and pussy belonged to one man only and it certainly wasn't Bullock.

"I thought I'd ask you first," said Bullock slyly. "You're the hot tamale around this place, aren't you?"

I looked past him to my brother, saying, "Gotta love your partner, James. Real charmer."

"Yeah," said Jim, lacking enthusiasm.

He quickly pulled his partner away, muttering something along the lines of not antagonizing his sister. Bullock mentioned that I was pretty and out of the two of us, I was the better-looking sibling. I inwardly smiled as Jim rolled his eyes and pretended to be affronted by the comment. As soon as they'd arrived, one of the waiters had immediately sprung to Fish to let her know that these gentlemen were here for her. She came out of her booth, greeting them both with civility.

"Fancy seeing you two again," said Fish, a mixture of sincerity and irony was evident.

"Still angry with us, Fish?" asked Bullock sweetly as they embraced.

"No," Fish answered (almost sounding genuine). "We're fine, and as for you" (she looked at Jim) "You _intrigue_ me. I knew I would regret killing you the moment I gave the word, but you know me. I'm feisty."

Bullock looked amused as ever; Jim was less than.

"What do you know about a man and a woman abducting street kids on your turf?" Jim questioned dryly.

Fish chuckled, "No foreplay with you, huh. Figures. But you got with the program really quick, didn't you? Killed Penguin your own bad self."

I frowned, closing my eyes in an attempt to assuage the feelings of animosity that started festering. I'd taken it upon myself to leave the bar, giving my shift to one of the waiters who asked to take it for the extra money. When I strolled behind Fish, Jim glanced at me with the hidden anxiety, since he knew what I knew….and what Fish didn't know. However, I played my part well. When Fish glanced at me knowingly, I made a scathing noise and glared at Jim, who appeared apologetic. That, at least, was real.

"I was surprised. Straight arrow like you," Fish pointed out, eyes glinting with wonder.

"I guess you misjudged me," Jim said coolly.

"I guess I did. You're just a little sinner like the rest of us," She drawled, stepping forward. "I'm almost kind of sad about that."

Jim looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but there at that moment. If Jim hadn't told me the truth, I'd have almost believed he might have killed Oswald. The look of regret in his eyes was genuine…. having other people think he did the deed was almost worse than actually having done the real thing. A pang of pity rose in my chest.

"We're looking for a man and a woman, middle-aged, white," Jim said, diverging from the topic. "Targeting children under the age of 16."

"He used a poisoned pen, if you could believe it," Bullock interjected humorously.

"I remember when the market only called for nice-looking girls," Fish drawled, half-smiling. "There's a buyer overseas who will take anyone young and healthy."

"Who's they?" Jim asked.

"Nobody knows."

"What does he want them for?"

"Nobody knows," said Fish apathetically. "And nobody cares."

Jim gave her a less than amused look.

Fish smirked at them and then at the top of her lungs, she shouted, "Sylvia!"

I startled, stepping away from the entertainment who were trying to get me on stage to sing and quickly moved towards Fish, who smiled at me.

'Come here', said the Spider to the Fly. And the Fly although reluctant sought to do as she was told.

I grimaced when she placed an arm around my shoulders.

"You know I didn't realize you two were related. She's your sister, right?" Fish asked curiously, smirking at Jim, who barely just nodded.

I made a notion to move away from her, but she held me close.

"I can see the resemblance," said Fish softly, smiling between Jim and me. "If I had to guess, this whole ordeal with Penguin has really drawn a wedge between the two of you. I do hope that, in time, you will become close once more." She patted my shoulder, adding remorsefully (if one could call it that), "I know you had warm feelings for that boy, but I just wanted you to know that he was no good for you. He was a nobody."

"Not to me." I breathed. I pushed her away from me, and glared at all three of them. "Not to _me_."

I shoved my shoulder against Jim, moving past them. Fish chuckled darkly at my reaction and Jim looked after me, shocked.

Truth be told, Oswald was a nobody when it concerned society life in Gotham. He was Fish's umbrella boy, and since his disappearance, not much had transpired in regards to finding him. It was like he disappeared off the face of the earth and yet nothing had come of it.

A short moment later as I took a smoke break in the alley where Fish did most of her beatings to discipline the rough characters that worked for her (excluding myself), I heard the door open and slowly turned to see Jim standing without his usual company. Apparently, Bullock had gone forward, heading up on the next lead wherever it might take him. Jim closed the door and stood before me.

"Nice work back there," Jim said coolly. He indicated his shoulder, rubbing it. "You might as well had dislocated my shoulder with how roughly you shoved me."

"Oh, stop whining. I barely touched you."

Jim allowed himself a snicker, something I hardly ever heard come out of him. He was an angst-y bastard. I held the cigarette between my index and middle fingers, tapping the end so the ashes fell but they disappeared in the puddles of rainwater. Last night had rained a monsoon.

"She has a point, you know," said Jim softly, looking left and right of the alley to be sure no one was watching—but everyone was watching. I felt eyes on me all the time.

"What point is that?" I asked, my voice hallow.

"He _was_ a nobody."

I shoved Jim against the wall, glaring at him.

"First off, you don't know him. So, you don't have the right to talk about him like that." I snapped. I threw the cigarette down, putting it out with the ball of my heel. "And how _dare_ you agree with that woman. She practically made his death a spectacle just for her own amusement."

Jim lowered his eyelids halfway, appearing stoic towards my petty anger. He saw himself in me, in my quick temper. Still, there was that look of compassion. But it was clear that he was a cop first, a brother second...and thirdly, a fiancé when it concerned Barbara.

"He can't come back."

"He _will_ come back."

"Why would he?"

"Gotham is his home, and _I_ am here!"

Jim rolled his eyes, teeth bearing down.

"If he comes back, I'm a dead man." Jim growled, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me. "And you—you need to _move on_. Find someone else for Christ's sake, find anyone else. Just let him go."

Jim's eyes were pleading, begging. He was scared for his safety, scared for Barbara. Scared, in general. I felt sorry for him, but selfishly, I wanted my beloved back in my arm's reach. If he didn't come back to Gotham, then I would be going to him. I'd thought about it before, even considered doing it. But Jim had only strengthened my will. What kept me from leaving was Fish—she kept tabs on me constantly, feeling that any moment I would snap and betray her as well.

I just needed to know where to start first. I needed a sign.

"You know," I resigned quietly. "You're right. You're absolutely right."

"I am?" Jim inquired, startled.

I patted his shoulder and then left him standing in the alley, staring at me. I'd make him think that I had given up and wouldn't find Oswald. Just like I made everyone else believe that I thought Oswald was dead. While everyone was scrambling to hide the children from the snatchers that lurked around Gotham streets, I made it my mission to find Oswald.

Fish called me into her office the next day. A waiter had pulled me none too gently from the alley behind the club, and I punched him in the jaw for that error. Fish laughed when she saw it happen, and made the waiter leave. Butch Gilzean stood at her right-hand, his own hands clasped over his front like the usual body guard. I looked at them both before turning to hatefully look at the waiter who quickly closed the door before I gave him a black eye to match.

"You've been aggressive these days with the staff," said Fish smoothly, rolling a pen between her fingers lazily as she sized me up. "Going through the stages of grief, are we?"

"Not quite." I answered quietly, glancing over my shoulder at the waiter who was making his way back to the bar to help out. I turned back to see Butch grinning slyly while Fish observed me with narrowed eyes.

"Should I be worried about you, Sasha?" asked Fish.

" _Sylvia_."

"Sorry," snickered Fish, bowing her head apologetically. "I keep forgetting your name since you're practically a no-body yourself…. just like the person who ratted me out to Major Crimes…." She slowly stood to her feet, and side-stepped around her desk, leaning against it as she continued to eye me.

I said nothing.

"You and Penguin…."

I hissed—Oswald hated being called that….and I hated anyone who made him feel as worthless as she did. Fish saw my resentment towards her, and she smiled because of it.

"That's not the first of my employees you've projected your anger at, Sylvia," said Fish, pointing at the bar to emphasize that I'd actually capped a few of them with blows and punches to the face. "You and your brother have quite the temper, don't you?"

I said nothing, still. Instead, I pressed my lips together, hoping I could formulate some sort of restraint like Jim, but I doubted my confidence. I didn't possess the same discipline, and I was a fighter like him. With Fish taunting me, I was thinking of cutting her with the letter opener that was on her desk.

"What am I to do with you…." Fish cooed.

She stepped towards me, her hand stroking my face. It took my will power not to scratch out her eyes. I shook with hatred, my body quivering. She looked me over with those bold-lined hazel eyes, her features brightening due to the light of the room.

"You have fire," said Fish quietly, tilting my chin up with two of her fingers so I was forced to look her in the eyes. "And you have passion. Two things I've always admired about you, Sylvia—you and I…. we're alike."

"Are we?"

The words came out quietly…. dangerously. It came out as a whisper, and Fish cocked her head to the side like I'd called her a name with which she was not familiar.

"You can achieve _so_ much, if you'd allow your potential to shine," Fish uttered. "But instead, you'd lower standards for someone like that little snitch…. that's all he is, my little girl. A snitch, a no-body, a useless little umbrella boy. And your actions thus far have caused me nothing but squalling."

"Are you firing me?" I asked dully, losing interest.

"What good would that do me?"

"I thought that's what you were implying," I admitted, searching her eyes for an answer. But I found nothing.

"You're more than welcome to keep working for me, my sweet little girl," Fish cooed, touching my face with both hands. Her grip tightened, and I winced. "But mark my words. The moment I hear you're turning against me—I will have you taken to the pier and shot dead as well. Do I make myself clear?"

" _Crystal_ ," I grunted, wincing as she shoved me away and I rubbed my jaw.

"Major Crimes will likely be on their way to ask questions," Fish said more to Butch than myself. "Make the staff aware. As for this one…." She glared at me. "I'll keep my eye on her."

"Right-o, Boss."

"So, are we done?" I questioned impatiently.

Butch gave me a look, wondering perhaps why I always placed myself in the worst position. Fish gave me a calculating look. Butch turned to Fish expectantly.

"Leave us, please." Fish said softly.

Butch nodded and went out the door, closing it. When I turned to look at Fish, she was smiling wickedly. She gestured for me to approach. Reluctantly, I did.

"Major Crimes will definitely want to talk to _you_ ," Fish said unhappily, twirling her finger at me. "You're Gordon's sister _and_ Cobblepot's…. well, whatever you two were. I'll have to ensure that you will not betray our little secret."

"The secret that Falcone ordered James to kill Oswald, you mean?"

"Yes. _That_ secret. So, how will I make sure that you won't deceive me, hmm?"

I bit my lip, hoping to god she would just spare me. The threat of death had long since passed. If she had wanted me killed, she'd have done so with Butch in the room. That way, they could reminisce for days later how great it was to write me off and then I'd be forgotten for the following months that passed. Fish watched me carefully, the gears in her head turning.

"You want me to stay quiet." I surprised her with my sudden submission. "Fine. I will. If they ask me questions, I will find something to do and avoid them. But Miss Mooney…." (I'd lost the privilege of calling her 'Fish' the moment Oswald ratted her out) "You needn't worry about me."

"I treated you like my daughter…." Fish began, as though she was going to spin into some angry mommy dearest rant, but her eyes softened once they met the pain and anger in my own. "He's turned you against me, I can see that. There's still a chance for you. First, though…. you have to show me."

"Show you what?"

"Show me you're still my baby girl," Fish whispered as she stroked my face. "Prove to me that you are still loyal, Sylvia."

"How?"

I stared at her, uncertainty building inside my stomach. I even felt a little nauseous with the anxiety. I glanced outside to see that Butch had directed everyone's attention in the bar towards this office, the glass walls made it easy to see Fish and me as the blinds had been opened for the audience's viewing purposes.

She grinned, and made a gesture with her hand for me to come to her. She pointed to the floor. Inwardly, I hissed. The idea of kneeling to this bitch was more than I could bear. She wanted me to kneel, to pledge my allegiance to her. Oswald wasn't dead, no—but for her to think I would swallow my pride and my grief for a woman like her after everything she'd done was more than I could handle. When I refused to kneel, she grabbed my hair and forced me down. I grunted, holding the hand that held me captive.

"You're stubborn," sighed Fish, shaking her head. "Or maybe strong-willed. It's hard to know which. Either way, you have become a pain in my side, Sylvia."

"Fish—" I began, but her actions that followed caught the words in my throat.

She picked up the letter opener and placed it against my collar bone, still holding me in place by my hair. I cringed, trying to move away. She was incredibly strong for her size. The letter opener cut into the skin, and I bit my tongue to keep from screaming. I would not give her any satisfaction.

"Too many mistakes have been made on all of our parts—on my part," Fish growled. "And an example needs to be made. You'll never forget who did this to you. It'll be a constant reminder to me never to trust your sweet little face ever again."

Pain—constant pain. The metal reached bone; I was certain of it.

The blade continued to slice through new skin. Desperate for it to stop, I lunged forward, shoving Fish into the desk. I tasted copper. She screamed, and smacked my face. The force of it threw me to the ground. She was on me in a matter of seconds.

The door burst open, and Butch piled inside with three other goons; he pulled Fish off me. Even though I was crying in pain, I was thankful that no tears had fallen. I could leave her with dignity if permitted to leave at all. The sting on my collar bone made me put my hand on it, and when I withdrew, I saw blood on my fingers.

"Little bitch bit me…." gasped Fish, holding her thigh.

"Boss…. _Falcone said—_ " Butch warned.

"Get out," Fish ordered, glaring daggers at me.

"You're not going to kill me?" I asked, slowly getting to my feet.

"I should," Fish snarled. "I _should._ It's because of Falcone that you're living right now. It's because of _him_ that you are not lying dead on my carpet. But you don't come back here, not ever. Do you understand me?"

I nodded. She looked at Butch. Butch nodded. He grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the office and then threw me out into the alley. I hurried away, not looking the gift horse in the mouth.

I stood in the mirror of my bathroom, cleaning the wound. The antiseptic stung, like it was acid eating a hole through the bone. I had been grateful that Oswald had requested that no harm come to me (Fat lot of good it did, though). I was happy I was still alive. But as I cleaned off my collar bone, I saw the clear hallow design of a fish, carved into my flesh. The same design of the fucking neon red sign outside of her club.

The fucking bitch had marked me.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Mine**

The Child Snatchers were still on the loose, taking children, snatching them up, and putting them only god knows where for only god knows what reason. When the Waynes were murdered, it was like the world became more chaotic than usual. Crime was not just in the streets or alleys; it was in the nicer parts of town. I stood outside my balcony, looking down at the bustling traffic. From above, it appeared calm, almost tranquil. When walking on the sidewalks, one needed five pairs of eyes to keep from being mugged. I should know.

I held the product of my latest spree, a leather black purse with fur lining. It had belonged to the wife of some greasy politician; the contents consisted of a checkbook, credit card, and a huge wad of cash that consisted of hundred-dollar bills. She had appeared casual, a simple woman with a messy brunette bun. She didn't seem to be the normal target—and that's what stood out to me about her.

Some people marked the rich types for the best loot. I always went after the ones who tried to look inconspicuous. I used the same method myself when I was out and about. I didn't carry a purse or a handbag; I kept all my valuables on me. If someone wanted to get close enough to rob me, they'd have a beating to follow. Case and point: if a woman carried a hand bag wearing casual clothes and not faux fur, they were pretty easy to loot.

I massaged one shoulder while I picked through the purse—the broad had landed an unexpected blow and while I'd come out mostly unscathed, the soreness was starting to kick in.

I was just about to dig into the deeper pockets before I heard a knock on the door. I shoved the bag inside the refrigerator (who would look for anything in the refrigerator unless they were a hungry burglar), and made my way towards the front of the apartment.

I wore only a night slip; before answering the second knock, I threw on a bath robe, and tied it off. As I did, there was a third knock. This time it was heavier, more force.

"I'm coming, goddamn it."

I unlocked the dead bolt, chain lock, and door handle, only opening it halfway before I saw a man dressed in khakis, and what appeared to be a knitted sweater with a yellow shirt underneath. His raven hair was a mess, and once they saw me, his blue-green eyes reflected my own familiarity.

"Oswald." I breathed.

I knew he had been alive. But that didn't stop me from fainting.

_"Sylvia..."_

I felt a hand patting my cheek, gentle taps but taps none the less. It occurred to me that I was lying on the couch, head on the arm. Strangely, my head didn't hurt, so I assumed that he'd caught me prior to my episode. He was knelt beside me, face full of worry.

"Oswald?"

Jim had told me, and I knew it. I had even believed him. But I had been wondering whether I wanted to believe Jim and so had forced myself to tag on the beautiful lie, hoping that I wouldn't find out the truth. Seeing Oswald in the flesh made it more real, more vivid. I nearly wanted to faint again.

"No, no, no—Sylvia, look at me."

Oswald moved awkwardly to his feet and sat on the couch beside me. He took my hands and pulled me up so I wouldn't faint again. I felt light-headed and breathless.

"You're alive…." I said quietly, still in disbelief. _Come on, girl. He's alive—you should be jumping up and down!_ I reached out to touch him. When I caressed his face, he placed his hand over mine. I blinked back tears, joyful tears.

"I am," Oswald insisted, chuckling a little.

"What…." I fiddled with the sweater. "What are you wearing?"

"Not important," He said, waving his hand dismissively.

"Where have you been?"

"That's more relevant. Did Gordon tell you anything?"

"Gordon?"

"Your brother," Oswald clarified.

"Oh! Yeah—no…I mean, he told me that he was supposed to kill you." I said, trying to rummage out the fogginess and clear my head. "Took you to the pier."

Oswald smiled when I couldn't say anymore. Knowing I cared enough made him feel better, I suppose. I touched his sweater again, looking it over, following the fabric from his shoulders down his arms. He watched me furtively, eyes growing with something of love and affection and maybe more. I looked at his wrists; on the cuffs of the shirt underneath, there was blood. I was certain it wasn't his.

"You've been through hell and back, haven't you?" I whispered.

He quickly shoved the sleeves of the sweater of the bloody yellow cuffs, hoping that I would forget. But, how could I?

"It's nothing."

"Is it yours?"

Oswald said nothing, looking at me. Like a dog who had been kicked one too many times and now was about to be scolded by its new master, Oswald's eyes were pleading. They tugged at my heart strings.

"Is it?"

"No." Oswald answered in a voice softer than a whisper. "It's not."

"Those aren't your clothes either, I bet."

"No. They are not."

He quickly opened to his mouth to say something else, but I put my hand over it. His eyes widened with surprise, hands raising to take my wrists. I smiled kindly; a warm feeling I had for him already, but something more simmered deep inside my core.

He killed people to get back to Gotham, to get back to me. It wasn't the action that made my heart swell with dark adoration, but the motive. Hell, I had watched him once before beat the shit out of a man just because Butch Gilzean asked if he wanted to have a go. Such stamina, such _raw_ brutality. There was blood on his hands, literally on his clothes. Oswald looked at me curiously, lips parting slightly as I lowered my hand.

"How many?"

"At least four," He quietly answered, shrugging uncertainly, "I lost count to be honest."

"You've killed four people?"

"Not without reason," He stammered, getting to his feet. "If I had any other choice, I—"

I snatched him by the knitted sweater he wore and pulled it down so he fumbled back down on the couch. He stared at me like I was someone else, as though I'd evolved into something scary but simultaneously brilliant.

Burning inside my core was a heat I hadn't felt before. No man had ever made me feel like I would lose control of my baser instincts. I shoved my mouth onto his before he could utter another word and he let out a gasping moan when I pushed him on his back. His fingers interlaced together behind me, grazing up my spine as I straddled him. They lined along the clasp of my bra; I felt the smirk on his mouth against my own.

"I've missed you," I told him in between pauses as we kissed.

"I've missed you too," Oswald returned breathlessly.

His fingers burned into my skin when he grabbed my thighs.

"I want you." My voice came out hoarse. I was pining for him, the ache between my legs becoming more painful than pleasing.

Oswald snickered, "I didn't think murder would turn you on…."

He wasn't complaining though; I could tell he wanted me too. The instant I had tackled him onto the couch, there was a tightness in his pants that couldn't be explained by wrongly fitted khakis.

I ignored his humor, but felt the same way. I could have seen it coming, to be honest. I felt frisky after my first mugging when I was seventeen years old, and the idea of murder—even the mention of it—made my loins ache. I had never taken a life, but the thought had always been so tempting. Having a cop for a brother normally offered a certain restraint. But Oswald…. I would have loved to see him at work.

It didn't help that on the television, a horror movie was being shown. It featured torture, and the screaming in the background of my apartment made me feel hornier than I cared to admit.

Hidden behind my black satin panties, my pussy was hot and aching for friction. I began grinding my center against the stiff bulge in a stranger's khakis, smirking at Oswald when he groaned, his eyes fluttering as a wave of pleasure shot through him like an electric pulse. His hands that had been resting lightly on my thighs now gripped them.

"I want you," I said again quietly. "Do you want _me_?"

"More than anything." Oswald managed; his voice was a lot hoarser than I expected.

I lowered my hand between us, rubbing his hard-on: "I can tell."

He wasn't hiding any of his lovely sounds from me. His panting, sighs of both relief and sharp intakes, and moans fueled the sexual attraction. His sounds were making me wet, and I craved more of him.

"Whose clothes are these anyway?" I asked curiously, sliding myself down his legs to remove his pants first.

He crossed his arms behind his head—looking more confident, like a king. As I unzipped the pants and pulled them down with his shorts, his erection sprung forward, and I smirked sheepishly. So that's what I did to him. Nice.

"I don't know their names."

"Didn't ask for them. Why did you kill them?"

"Is that something you really want to talk about right now…."

Oswald's words were caught in his throat when I leaned forward and kissed the tip of his cock, licking the precum like it was a delectable treat (and it was). I looked up at him, smiling but expectant. I wanted to hear him talk while I sucked him off; to hear his voice attempt to sound calm and narrative in between moans of pleasure.

"One called me _that_ name," Oswald hissed. He meant 'Penguin'. "So, I smashed a beer bottle over his head in the truck."

"Mm—drinking while driving is illegal. Guess he deserved it." I licked his shaft and Oswald inhaled sharply.

My air of dismissal for the fatality seemed to strike Oswald's fancy; his hands made fists on the couch in an attempt to maintain his restraint.

I moved forward, straddling his waist. His cock twitched excitedly against my underwear, the heat of my core calling out to it. Oswald looked up at me; I recognized the admiration—and now I saw something more. His pupils were full blown, completely covering the aquamarine irises as his desire was revealed to me tenfold. I took the hem of both his shirts and pulled them up; he sat up briefly and allowed me to shed the last of his clothes, throwing them over the side of the couch, and lying back down.

"What about the others?"

"I tried to hold the other gentleman for ransom," Oswald said, shrugging modestly when I grinned at him.

"Who would have paid?"

"His mother."

"Did she?"

"She didn't take me seriously."

"Are you kidding?"

"I can't make this stuff up."

"Poor kid."

"He was a pretentious ass," Oswald protested.

"Far be it for me to say otherwise," I mewed.

I touched the tip of my fingertips along his neck; he craned his head back, allowing me full access to it. My thumbs lined his throat. I had the urge to choke him for some reason, and I gave in to the temptation, but only applying pressure on either side. He closed his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting in guilty pleasure as I started grinding my clothed sex against his full erection.

"Is that their blood on your clothes, then?"

Oswald shook his head slightly, his eyes still closed.

"No…. that belongs to someone else."

I leaned forward, my hands resting on his chest, and kissed his nose. He opened his eyes.

"Anyone I know?" I asked mischievously.

"One of Mooney's thugs saw me. He was going to bring me in."

I lifted myself up, sliding down my underwear and stepping out before straddling him again. My robe was still tied off, concealing everything but my sex was completely exposed to him. He licked his lips when my wet pussy came in contact with his cock. His jaw clenched and I heard him strain a moan.

"I hope you killed the bastard."

"What a devious mind, you have," Oswald chuckled. The small laugh died a little when I started grinding my pussy slowly along his shaft.

"I want it just as badly as you do," I told him softly, my fingers grazing down his chest.

He wore so many suits that I hadn't given the thought that he had any muscle—but lo and behold, he was lean and muscular.

"But since this is going to be our first time together," I continued, "I want it to last as long…." (I kissed his neck) "as possible."

He caught my lips with his, engaging in another tongue seeking battle in my mouth. He pressed the tip of his cock inside my heat, extracting an involuntary moan from me. He chuckled, a different kind of laugh that I hadn't heard before. It was low, throaty almost. And it was sexy as hell. My stomach rolled with a discomfort that was not completely unpleasant.

His hands fiddled with the tie of my robe.

"You're overdressed, my dear," Oswald whispered with an affluent confidence.

"Well, you can undress me when I say you can."

He growled deep within his throat in protest, but the twitch of his cock against my sex said he liked it. He met my little grinding dance with his own small thrusts, his face flush with heat as was mine. My pussy ached for him, the muscles inside clenching hopelessly for a cock to swallow. _His_ cock.

He moved my robe to the side, slipping his hands up my body to hold my hips. His thumbs inched up to feel the lines of my ribs, then behind my back. The clasp of my bra became undone.

"Take it off, Sylvia."

It wasn't a request. It was commanding, and I felt my knees become weak.

I began to do what he asked, but he caught my hands in his.

"Stand up and do it," Oswald said, sitting up. He kissed my bottom lip. "Reveal yourself to me. Slowly."

Between coming to my apartment and being shoved onto the couch by my own doing, Oswald had built enough confidence to start demanding things from me. And I was all about it. I wanted him and he knew it. I did as I was told, standing in front of the couch. He turned so he sat upright, leaning against the back of the couch, eyes front, with his cock on display.

He gestured for me to start.

It'd be the first time he actually saw me completely naked.

There was never going to be a more perfect moment to commemorate our relationship than him coming back from the dead. I hadn't been a virgin in years, but I felt like one now, slowly untying my robe. His eyes narrowed as he watched me, like he was doing his best to savor every detail of my body. The intensity of his gaze made me flustered. My hands even began to shake. I'd never had anyone actually watch me the way he did, and suddenly, I was the self-conscious one.

"Don't stop." Oswald encouraged, stroking his steadily growing erection.

I slowly took off the robe, first at the shoulders then it seemed to take forever for the fabric to puddle at my feet. He squeezed and palmed his member while watching me, and that made me even hornier. I didn't even think it was possible. I had lost my shyness as I approached him, but then when his eyes became cold, I suddenly remembered the mark Fish had given me, right on my collar bone.

He touched the lining of my collar, his eyes becoming dangerously bright as he looked into mine.

"What is that?" Oswald asked quietly.

Humiliation filled my face, and I wanted to crawl into a ball.

"Mooney." I barely managed.

He slid the pad of his fingertip over it and I cringed.

"She did that to you?"

"Yes."

"When."

"A couple days ago."

He started shaking. I'd never seen him so angry. He suddenly stood, looking like he might go out starting a fight. His lips were pursed, eyes wide in fury.

"Oswald…."

"How _dare_ she lay a hand on you—"

"Oz…."

"After I specifically, _specifically_ told Falcone—" He began to rant, and he wasn't even making full sentences any more.

Oswald Cobblepot in the full nude was pacing furiously before he suddenly turned on his heel and headed into the kitchen.

I walked after him and saw him digging into the silverware: "What are you doing?"

He didn't answer me.

I watched him awkwardly and painfully get to his knees, crawling under the kitchen table, and it occurred to me why he was so infuriated.

Fish had punished him for betraying her in her own way, smashing his leg to the point where he now noticeably limped everywhere he went.

And now, Mooney had punished me for Oswald being a snitch while I, personally, had done nothing wrong.

Oswald didn't seem to care what had been done to him, but seeing the pain she'd caused me—he wouldn't literally stand for it.

When he stood back up, he was holding my spare gun that had been taped under the table.

"Oswald…." I warned.

"She's _dead_ ," He panted, checking to make sure it was loaded (it was) and snapping the barrel shut. "She's dying tonight. That's all there is to it. She is _not_ allowed to harm you—no one is—and the moment Falcone finds out, she is dead, but it will be by **my** hand, _not_ his!"

I grabbed him by the shoulders, shoved him against the wall and simultaneously took the gun out of his hand, and placed it on the counter. He looked at me as though I had done the worst thing possible, but really, in my opinion, it was in the best interest of everyone involved.

"Sylvia—"

"Stop, okay? Just stop..."

"She hurt you…."

"I know." I acknowledged it.

He was still trembling with rage.

He startled when I kissed him. And it happened like I hoped it would happen. His anger at Fish, at anyone that had tried to hurt me, tear us apart, or pull me away from him, spurred him on. He switched us so my back hit the wall; I grunted with the impact, then became lost in the passionate kissing that followed. He would do anything for me—kill for me—die for me—and I knew it.

Naked in the kitchen, we were, and that seemed to just make things even hotter. His hands grabbed my ass; his cock slid up and down between the lips of my heat as I whimpered in need.

"Jump." Oswald ordered.

He held fast to my thighs as I did what I was told and my body was compressed between his and the wall. I heard him stifle a groan of pain with the weight bearing down on his leg, but for the moment, he didn't seem to give a shit.

"Tell me how much you need me inside of you right now." I could hear the anticipation shaking in his voice as his cock teased my sex.

I honestly didn't think he was the type for dirty talk, but oh my lord, was he already good at it. The natural rasp of his voice, the hoarseness that took over when he was plagued by his own desire only made me want him more. I was reduced to puddles before some could even be made.

I whimpered again when he teased me.

"I want you to fuck me."

"Do you?" Oswald disdainfully, smirking.

Arrogance seemed to suit him well. And it did things to me.

"Please..."

He pulled away and my feet touched the floor. I bit my lip when he tilted his head to the side, a gesture for me to follow him. I did, right into my bedroom. I entered into the room first, turning on the light, and heard the door close sharply. When I turned, I saw a dangerous glint in his eye.

"Kneel down." Oswald commanded.

Eagerly, I did (even though it gave me flashbacks of the incident in Fish's office). He palmed himself in front of me, smirking.

"Take me in your mouth."

I complied wholeheartedly. On my knees, I crawled to him. My lips closed around the tip of his cock and I heard him exhale in relief. My tongue lathered his shaft with my spit and I eagerly bobbed my head up and down his cock. All I wanted was to hear him moan. I let him go with a _pop_.

"I didn't tell you to stop."

"I'd prefer it if you sat down." I said kindly.

He smiled at me and sat down on the edge of the bed. When he did, I resumed my method of pleasing him. One hand laced through my hair, massaging my scalp as I sucked and licked him like a delicious lollipop. His scent was captivating, a mix of expensive cologne, and his musk.

His hips began to respond to me, his cock thrusting into my mouth. I slipped my hands underneath him, grabbing his ass. Oswald moaned, and slowly lied down on his back, becoming lost to the sensations.

I felt his cock twitch, and I licked him one last time before I took the initiative. He looked at me when I had stopped but smirked when I mounted his cock. He placed his palm over my sex, feeling my heat, my pool of desire. I'd become wetter as I sucked him off; the knowledge of this made him chuckle.

"She gave that to you because of me, didn't she?" Oswald asked softly, looking up at me with the same mixture of anger, love, and lust. The anger was all reserved for Fish, of course.

"Yes, but don't think on that now."

I took his hard-on in my hand, and slowly slid him inside of me. His lips parted; his eyes rolled in the back of his head as my tight pussy adjusted to him. He was a godly sight, the way he didn't hold back.

"So wet…." Oswald groaned. He touched my hips, his thumbs caressing the bone.

"Only for you." I let out a moan myself when I felt him fill me completely.

In the bedroom, there were no sounds but those of our voices and skin meeting skin. It was hot and heavy, and my climax was reaching, just _reaching_ and begging to be met. It was so close, I could almost taste it, and it made me needy.

"Want me to take over?"

" _Please_..."

Without moving out of me, he pushed me back, grasped my hips and pulled me to him as he pushed inside of me. I let out a pleasurable keen; he grinned like a Cheshire cat. He was faster than I thought he would be, and by no means was I complaining. He slammed inside of me so hard, I thought I would become a puddle. My fingers raked the bed sheets; he snatched them in one hand and held them above my head.

"You have _no_ idea," Oswald grunted, "how long I have been waiting to do this."

"I can imagine," My little giggle cut short when he clamped his other hand over my mouth.

A fresh wave of desire flushed through me. My eyes were wide, and he saw my excitement.

"You like that, don't you," Oswald breathed into my ear, grinning mischievously.

My pussy clenched around him in positive response. I was utterly helpless in movement, his body pressed against mine, my hands ill-disposed, and any of my vocal responses muffled by his hand. The powerless feeling should have frightened me but I was enthralled. My toes curled; my breathing became shallow, almost nonexistent. Just as my climax was reaching for its peak, his thrusts were becoming less rhythmic, sloppier, and harder.

"Mm in mm me."

Oswald looked at me curiously, lifting his hand from my mouth: "What?"

"Come inside me!"

He pushed deep inside of me a few more times, enough that my back arched and my head tossed back against the mattress; his hand lined my neck, choking me slightly as I keened. My body shook, my breathing became restricted, and all the blood rushed to my head. But my body sang. I opened my eyes to see Oswald experiencing the same strength of an orgasm, coming inside of me. His body dead weight as he collapsed.

He kissed the marking on my collar bone, my throat, and then kissed me gently but passionately on the lips. I returned it, hearing him whisper only one word.

' _Mine._ '

**Chapter 4: Friday Night Fight**

Chapter Four: Friday Night Fight

A/N: _This was, by far, one of the most thrilling chapters to write. So much fun! Enjoy!_

Oswald and I were snuggled together, sleeping. Or at least, he was.

He lied on his back with an arm wrapped around my backside while the other rested on his chest. My head rested in the crook of his neck, one of my legs between his. It was still night fall, the moonlight peeking through the drapes. His breathing was rhythmic...slowly in…. slowly out….and he didn't snore (which was a plus).

His face was relaxed, sleeping with a small smile. I took credit for that smile. The steady rise and fall of his chest nearly had me falling back to sleep until I heard my cell phone ringing off the hook in the other room.

 _That might be Jim_.

I reluctantly slid out of Oswald's embrace. When he stirred, I kissed his shoulder and he let out a quiet 'mm' before turning towards me and falling back to sleep.

 _Sweet baby_.

He pulled all kinds of emotions and thoughts from me. One moment, I wanted to fuck him six days til Sunday, and in another moment, I wanted to shield him from all the harm of the world like a mother. He didn't seem to mind my protective, nurturing side. If anything, he liked it. I watched him for a moment, pulling the covers over him.

My cell phone rang again for the tenth time. Suddenly irritated for the obvious reasons, I strode into the living room and picked up the phone.

"What?" I answered briskly.

Jim's voice hollered from the other side, "I've been trying to call you for the past three hours!"

Realizing this wasn't going to be a quick 'hi, bye' conversation, I bent down to the living room floor, grabbed my robe, tied it off and sat on the couch, placing my feet on the coffee table. I smirked when I glanced at the condition of my thighs; much like my back, Oswald's fingernails had dug into them like crazy when I had been riding him, and bruises had already started to appear.

No complaints on my end, of course.

"Are you still there!"

"Calm down," I snapped. "I'm here. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Did something happen a few days ago?"

"Can you be more specific? This is Gotham—shit happens all the time."

"Between you and Mooney."

I frowned, sighing. I lowered my feet off the table. So much for being relaxed.

"We had a disagreement," I admitted calmly. "But nothing I can't handle."

"Harvey went over to her place to follow a lead—"

"And she mentioned little old me? Color me flattered."

"What _happened_!"

I raised my eyebrows. His voice sounded all too close to be on the phone. In fact, it seemed to be not just coming from the phone but down the hall of my apartment. Curious, I stood up slowly and just as I reached the front door, I saw Jim through the peep hole, holding the phone to his ear.

"You're angry, Jim—I get it, but…."

"Is it true!"

"Is _what_ true?" I questioned—he was starting to piss me off with his demands.

"Open the door, Sylvia."

I rolled my eyes.

"OPEN THE DOOR!"

"Okay, for god's sake—you're going to wake up the whole fucking complex."

I hung up on him, tossing my phone to the couch. When I opened the door I saw a very haggard-looking brother of mine. He was breathing heavily, eyes cold and dangerous, looking more like a dog who'd been vexed too many times rather than a human.

He brushed past me, furiously storming inside.

"Come in, I guess."

He sensed my sarcasm, but that seemed to only further piss him off.

"Are you _looking_ for trouble, Sylvia?" Jim questioned harshly as I closed the door and locked it.

"No. Are **you**?" I retorted, gesturing to him roughly. "You're barging in here like a rabid dog—someone will likely file a domestic violence complaint and then you're—"

"Why did you bite Fish?" Jim interrogated, hands on his hips.

"She tried to make me kneel," I replied coldly.

"What?"

I rolled my eyes, saying, "Ah—shocker—you don't know the whole situation, do you? You hear for a second that I bite the little bitch, and you come running over to _my_ apartment, throwing accusations in my face." I made jazz-hands, adding contemptuously, " _So_ original."

Jim shook his head, saying, "She had good information on one of our leads, Sylvia—a really good informant. On account of _your assault,_ she wouldn't help us."

"She wouldn't help _you_." I snarled, thrusting a finger into his chest. "If Bullock went alone, she'd probably melt like butter."

"You're messing with me, aren't you?"

"The hell I am," I hissed. "She wanted me to fucking _bow_ to her, to tell her that I belonged to her."

"Why didn't you?" Jim growled.

"Why didn't I! _Because I don't belong to her_ ," I spat, harshly pointing towards the door, indicating the bitch in question. "And I will not fucking degrade myself in such a way even if I was pledging my undying loyalty to the monster. She forced me on my _knees,_ pulled my hair—and to make an example of me, she fucking did **this**!"

I pushed aside my robe and revealed to him the mark she had carved on my skin. Jim stared at it, fire immediately extinguished. I straightened my robe back, glaring at him.

"You're a complete jackass," I said, shaking my head. "You know that?"

Jim approached me, hands out in surrender.

"Sylvia…."

"Fuck you, Jim."

"Sylvia, she didn't—"

"She didn't tell you? Why the fuck would she?" I responded vehemently. "What would she have gained from that?"

"I…."

I held up my hand, closing my eyes in an attempt to calm myself. Jim looked at me reproachfully.

"She did that to you, then you bit her."

"Yes," I answered truthfully, crossing my arms.

"Why did this even happen?"

"I already told you—She wanted me to prove that I still belonged to her," I returned sarcastically. "The fact is, I never did. I was never _hers_. Despite what's been carved into my chest, it's not been carved in stone. Even if it was, it is a lie."

Jim frowned. He placed his hands on my shoulders.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"But I am."

I smiled at him. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. I offered him a drink and he was grateful. He sat on the couch, looking at the television as it played a romantic comedy. I hadn't been watching it—it switched from horror to comedy every other hour or so. Jim thanked me for the glass of wine, and I sat beside him.

He glanced at my cell phone, noticing several missed calls.

"You've not checked your messages," He noted the obvious.

"I've been busy."

"Doing what?"

I shrugged, saying, "Nothing much."

And then we both heard it.

The bedroom door clicked shut. Jim and I turned to see (thankfully) a fully clothed Oswald in black pajamas coming out. He appeared very much awake, and after listening to our less than quiet conversation, seemed to realize that Jim was here.

And the moment Jim saw Oswald, my brother was on his feet. I quickly stood, but was too late before he snatched Oswald by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against the bedroom door.

I scolded him ("Jim!") but that didn't do any good as Jim bared his teeth and glared at Oswald, who shook like a leaf.

"WHY DID YOU COME BACK!" He bellowed.

"I could not stay away," Oswald stammered nervously. "I-I also wanted to speak with you…"

He inadvertently glanced at me, and to his discredit, Jim noticed. As a result, my brother's jaw became tense and his eyes were blown with rage.

"If Falcone finds out you're alive, he'll kill us both!"

"Gotham is my home," Oswald replied, smiling weakly.

"I should have _killed_ you!"

"Jim!" I snapped. I pushed him away from Oswald, to no success of mine. Jim just shoved me away.

"I should put a bullet in your head right now!" Jim bellowed, gesticulating angrily—although he did let him go.

"JIM!"

"SHUT UP, SYLVIA!" Jim growled, glaring at me. "You know what can happen if Falcone finds out that he's alive! He's going to kill us both—and hell, even you! You've been—he's been here and—"

"Calm the fuck down," I ordered. "It's not like Falcone knows. Oswald's been with me for the past two nights."

Jim seemed incoherent after finding out that bit of information. He looked like a mad dog with rabies, foaming at the mouth—that's the image I had of him if he was an animal. And he projected his fury towards Oswald.

"I should kill you right now…."

"You'd have every right to do so—"

"Don't tempt me," Jim said dangerously.

"For fuck's sake…." I muttered, shaking my head. "I'm getting a drink."

Oswald and Jim looked at me then at each other as I passed into the kitchen.

"You can kill me—but you won't," said Oswald quickly, his voice shaking and body trembling. That adrenaline rush did wonders for him, I bet. "You won't because you're a good man. And you may be the only good man in Gotham."

"Ain't that the fucking truth," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

"That's why I want to help you."

"I don't want your help," growled Jim.

"But you need it." Oswald retorted. "That _vile_ creature, Fish Mooney, Falcone, the police, and not even your own partner trust you. They'll _always_ hide the truth from you. But not me. Never. You saved my life."

I poured a whiskey.

"God knows I wish I hadn't," Jim snarled.

_A little more whiskey than that, yep, that looks good._

To prove a point (I am guessing), Oswald stepped towards the kitchen, took the gun that I had placed on the counter the other night after he threatened to disembowel Mooney, and handed it over to Jim who stared at him.

"Kill me now," Oswald ordered, handing him the gun. "Or _trust_ me."

_Maybe I should not even bother with a glass—the bottle itself will do for tonight. It's the weekend, anyway, I'll just sleep in on Saturday._

Jim approached Oswald; eyes wide. I watched them, a little uncertain of what might happen. A breath of relief escaped me when Jim snatched the gun and threw onto the kitchen table, looking more or less annoyed that Oswald had even offered such an option in the first place.

"I told you there's a war coming, Jim," said Oswald confidently. "There will be so many deaths. So many. You want to help Gotham? I can help you; I can be your secret agent."

"Until Falcone finds out you're _alive_ ," Jim barked.

"No one looks for a dead man, hm." Oswald countered.

"This war—what are you talking about, why would there be a war?"

"As you know, war is just politics by other means. And isn't politics just money talking?"

"Talking about what?"

Oswald chuckled, "Arkham, of course."

Jim stared at him. Oswald waited for him to cross check for credibility but none came. They heard me sipping from the bottle, and both gentlemen turned to look in my direction. By the time they'd finished arguing or whatever one could call it, I was pretty tipsy.

"Secret agent…." Jim muttered more to himself than to anyone in particular. "Falcone could come after the both us— _will_ come after us...and you're staying with her." He gestured to me. "That doesn't exactly put my mind at ease, Cobblepot."

I held up my hands, walking between them: "Whoa, leave me out of this."

"You've put your life in danger by harboring him. You do realize that, don't you?" Jim seethed, pointing harshly at Oswald who looked insulted.

"Fuck _you_ ," I snapped, turning to look at him. "You're a fucking cop, and you put _me_ in danger any time you arrest someone."

"Fish Mooney…." Jim reminded.

"That's a different issue," I argued. "She wanted me to bow to her, to kneel down and say that I belonged to her but I don't. I never did. She wasn't even the reason I started working there in the first place!"

Jim glanced at Oswald knowingly.

"And," I added coldly, "I'm not swearing allegiance to any woman _or_ man who tells _my_ brother to whack off my boyfriend. It's lunacy!"

Jim urged, "If you leave now, I can protect you."

"Funny," I retorted, "I feel safer with Oswald than I have _ever_ felt with you."

Jim stared at me incredulously. Oswald appeared shocked as well.

"Sylvia, listen to me," Jim coaxed, ignoring Oswald, as he approached me and placed his hands on my shoulders gently. "You bit Fish Mooney, and she carved her symbol into you. Then you harbor the very person she tried to kill. You're in a great deal of trouble—thanks to _him_."

"I'm _right_ here. I can hear you." Oswald pointed out.

"Shut up!" Jim lashed out.

"STOP YELLING AT HIM!"

Oswald and Jim both appeared shocked at my shrieking. It caught Jim by surprise, at least, shutting him up.

Jim rubbed his temple, looking like he might explode from his internal frustrations. Then he seemed to stop himself as he stared at Oswald for a moment, then turned to me. He looked me up and down quickly, and frowned when he saw the bruises on my thighs, and even the redness along my neck.

"What the hell have you two been doing?" Jim questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Oswald blushed a deep shade of red.

"Nothing you'd want to know about, big brother," I returned slyly, smirking at him as he, too, flushed a deep shade of red.

"I'll call you later," said Jim. "And we'll talk more."

"Sure, we will."

He glanced at me uncomfortably, then glared at Oswald before leaving the apartment as quick as his legs could carry him. I turned to Oswald who smiled.

"That couldn't have gone better," he snickered.

* * *

**Chapter 5: The Contract**

The moment Fish exiled me was also the day I was fired. Since then, I had been wandering the streets, looking for work. Gotham was funny in that sense—there was work literally everywhere especially for a girl as lovely as myself, but I wasn't interested in fucking or pole dancing. So, ultimately, I was a waitress again. The humor of it was that two weeks after I'd been hired as a waitress, Oswald was hired there as well, as a dishwasher. Except he went by an alias, namely 'Paolo'.

Lou, the owner, was a bit of a shit pile. Business was booming, and despite paying me below minimum wage, he was still complaining about how the business wasn't everything it was meant to be and there was money to be had. That's what low-earning employees wanted to hear about all the time: the first-world problems of those who were better off. _Joy._

As a waitress, I could only spare him the look of apathy. I couldn't give two shits about his business, the restaurant, or why Salvatore Maroni always chose this spot as his wine-and-dine area.

The latter always came in for dinner, and was seated at the most open table. Watching the Don himself, I didn't think much of his presence. Oswald, on the other hand, listened closely to these conversations about this arising plan for Arkham. I saw the manager more than once chewing him out for listening to a particular conversation about robbing and looting one of Falcone's warehouses. Seeing the men being seated by the garcon, I took my pad and pen and headed towards Maroni's table. Not before being stopped by Lou, who snatched my wrist.

The very action itself made Oswald frown in protest. I looked at Lou expectantly.

"Be particularly polite with these people, Sarah. Don Maroni makes up for most of my profits, you know."

"My name is Sylvia," I corrected. I jerked my hand out of his grip. "And I'm always polite."

I smiled at him sarcastically, then I continued on my way.

The Italian boss, large in his build as he was in his appetite, looked at me curiously. Prominent chin, stern brown eyes. Jim called him a 'hothead'. He certainly looked the type.

He looked me up and down, more out of minding my presence than looking at the goods. I glanced at the kitchen, knowing Oswald was not listening to the manager who was giving him shit for eavesdropping—Oswald met my gaze, and I smiled gently before turning to the three men at the table.

Don Maroni was easily recognizable. His stern expression was replaced with an easy-going affect as he turned to me in his chair while I listed off the specials. His regular companion, Frankie Carbone, had a dirty smile on his face, which I intentionally made a point to ignore. Wearing a red and white dress made my eyes pop, and it was the only reason I liked it. Having men stare at me was annoying, but one became used to it.

"What do _you_ recommend?" Maroni asked when I had finished listing off the Chef's specials of the day.

"You eat here enough," I told him, placing my pen in my apron. "Shouldn't I be asking you that question."

Maroni chuckled, prodding Frankie in the stomach. It wasn't hard to entertain this Don.

"I'll have a Negroni—it's so good with seafood. Have you ever had one?" Maroni asked, looking at me genuinely curious.

"No." I answered, taking my pen out once more and writing down his order.

"You don't drink?"

"I'm more or less a vodka girl, Don Maroni," I answered politely.

"Do you prefer Sex on the Beach or a Screwdriver?" Frankie questioned.

Boy, this guy was _full_ of sexual innuendos.

"I prefer to mix them together."

"What kind of drink would you call that?" Maroni asked, laughing quietly.

"I don't think it has a name," I returned, shrugging. "Either way, it tastes amazing."

"How long have you been working here? I don't recognize you."

"A couple of weeks."

"Does the manager treat you well?"

"Well enough," I returned.

Maroni looked at me once more, sizing me up.

"Good." He said, smiling at me handsomely. To Frankie, he added, "Good. I hate seeing nice girls like this all dolled up and then treated like dirt. Gets my blood boiling, you know?"

Frankie smirked at me.

"What will _you_ have?" I asked Frankie.

"Beer."

"Of course," I muttered, scribbling it down. "Lobster and Negroni for the Don, and just beer for you? Nothing to eat?"

"Unless you're putting yourself on the menu, no." Frankie returned, wiggling his eyebrows.

Maroni chuckled along with his friend. I rolled my eyes, putting away my pen and paper. As I strolled by the chef, I handed him the two orders. When the chef saw that he was cooking for the Don himself, he was immediately at his best and started working on those orders before the ones that had already been in place. This wasn't an abnormal occurrence or the Chef's personality; it was the big man's call.

I walked into the kitchen, and I shuddered. Don Maroni had been polite for the most part, even enticing the employees including myself in conversation. But that Frankie Carbone was a pig. He left an oily taste in my mouth.

"Sylvia."

I saw Oswald looking at me, concerned.

"Hey...Paolo," I said, turning to him.

He smiled at my use of his alias, like it was an inside joke between the two of us (honestly, it was).

"Are you okay?" He asked.

"Fine." I answered.

He glanced at the other workers who were sneaking looks at us. Oswald wanted to ask if Maroni or Frankie had told me anything important in regards to Falcone or the Arkham project. Or maybe he just wanted to know what had been said in general since I couldn't wipe the discomfort off my face. Before I said anything to the likeness, I heard Lou shouting.

"The plates are ready, Sylvia! Get in there and serve them."

 _Oh, wonderful._ Now _, he remembers my name._

Oswald and I exchanged mutual expressions of spite before I turned on my heel, thanked the chef for his timeliness, and then served the meals to the Don and his pig friend. Maroni looked at me with the same handsome smile, pleased to see that I was his waitress of the day. Granted, I was the _only_ waitress—the rest of them were all men.

"You remind me of someone," Maroni told me, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Where are you from?"

"Gotham," I answered. "Born and raised."

"You like Gotham?"

"I like it enough."

Frankie opened his beer. Maroni glanced at his friend listlessly before turning back to me.

"Do you like working here?" Maroni asked.

"I like it enough," I answered, shrugging a shoulder.

Maroni smiled at me, like he could tell I wanted to pop off my boss at the moment. He seemed to like Lou well enough, greeting him with an embrace each and every time he came into the diner. Or maybe that was an Italian trait…. or a Don trait, now that I thought of it. Since Falcone would do the same thing.

"Lou calls you 'Sasha'. Sometimes, he calls you 'Sarah'. Which is it?" said Maroni conversationally.

I scoffed, "Neither. It's 'Sylvia'."

"'Sylvia'. Now that's a more fitting name," Maroni said, smiling at me. "You look like a 'Sylvia'." He looked at Frankie who was eye-fucking me. "She looks like a 'Sylvia'. Don't you think so, Frankie?"

"Very fitting," Frankie drawled.

I watched Maroni take a drink of his Negroni, then a bite of his lobster. He nodded with his approval, then held out his hand for mine. I offered it cautiously. Then he kissed the back of my hand charmingly.

"You've been very accommodating. Great service. Give my props to the chef, would you, babes?"

I felt something in my hand as he allowed me to leave. I realized then that he had given me a forty-dollar tip.

I heard him say to Frankie, "Such a nice-looking girl, isn't she?"

"One of the best I've ever seen here," He guffawed.

I stopped at another table, took their orders, suffered the same sexual innuendo, and then gave these orders to the chef. He stopped me briefly, asking if the Don approved. I said 'yes' and that was the highlight of the chef's day, it seemed.

"Sasha…."

I glared at Lou.

"I mean Sylvia…." Lou corrected immediately.

"What?"

I stood near the shelves with all the ready-to-be-served plates. Lou stood before me. Oswald was washing dishes on the opposite side of us; he looked at Lou and me with a curious expression.

"Did he approve?" asked Lou.

"As always," I answered stoically.

"I knew he would."

"We're not talking about the food, are we?" I asked knowingly.

"He requested you specifically to serve him this afternoon," praised Lou, taking my hand in his. "You're his favorite."

"Fantastic."

"You don't sound enthusiastic."

"You're very perceptive," I told him apathetically.

"Is there a problem?"

"No problem. Your psychological need to receive praise from Don Maroni borders on levels that would concern most people, Lou." I pulled my hand from him, wiping it on my apron. "With all due respect, sir—You need to get a life."

"That's not proper talk from an employee to her boss." Lou chastised.

I bit my tongue.

"My apologies," I said with forced calm. "I'm just tired, that's all."

"Well, you best get over it. Because Maroni is coming back _tomorrow_."

"Joy." I muttered, rolling my eyes.

Don Maroni was getting ready to leave so naturally, Lou, the little dog that he was, moved out of range to lead his master out of the door. Oswald looked at me with furrowed eyebrows and narrowed eyes, probably trying to see what devious thoughts were swirling in my mind.

That fucking Lou….

Vodka seemed to be the cure of all problems. I was on my third glass and flipping through the countless boring channels Gotham's most mediocre cable had to offer when the front door opened. I had gotten off work at the same time, but Oswald worked a longer shift. Knowing he'd be home later, I'd left all the locks alone. He came through the door, looking just as fed up with the world as I had been.

I raised my glass, acknowledging him. He was still wearing his work clothes, dressed in all white. He moved behind the couch and leaned over to kiss me; I tilted my head back, returned it, knowing he'd taste the sweet taste of alcohol on my lips.

"You smell like dish soap." I mused, grinning widely.

Oswald couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he kissed me on my cheek and moved into the bedroom.

I picked a random channel, and threw the remote to the side. My head was swimming, and since Oswald had walked into my apartment, there was a sudden ache in my loins that required his attention. However, I maintained some self-control (surprisingly). When Oswald came out of the bedroom, he was dressed out of his work clothes and wearing a suit.

_Goddamn._

"Heading somewhere?" I asked.

He locked the door, then turned to me.

"A few potential businessmen will be on their way shortly," Oswald informed casually.

"Businessmen," I giggled. "Businessmen with briefcases or ones with guns?" I held my free hand up, symbolizing a child's gun and made 'pew-pew' noises.

Oswald buttoned the lining of his jacket as he approached me. I licked my lips as he placed one hand over my head on the back of the couch, while he balanced himself on the cushion with the other; Oswald hovered over me. I met his eyes and couldn't help to bite my lip—from this angle, he looked like a lion sizing up his prey. So dominant….

"Businessmen with guns," Oswald told me lightly.

"Sounds important." I noted. "But just because they have guns doesn't mean they're businessmen."

Oswald straightened. I leaned forward, placing my hands on his thighs.

"Are you planning a hostile takeover?" I breathed.

"Something to that effect."

"That's an exciting thought. Will you tell me?"

My hand ghosted over the custom-fitted linens that covered his cock. His body flinched, and I smirked. I palmed him through his pants, teasing.

"There's no need to tell you anything," Oswald returned quietly.

"Oh, is that why they're coming over here? To talk about all the details?" I scrunched my nose playfully like a bunny rabbit.

Oswald watched me loosen his belt, his eyes transfixed on my fingers.

"Honey, how much have you had to drink?" Oswald asked gently, taking my hands in his and stopping me.

"Why does that matter?" I asked.

"How much?"

_Oh, that stern tone._

I leaned back: "Three glasses. But most of it was diluted with cranberry juice."

He looked me over, seeing me in my robe. It was clear he wanted me. He was already half-erect before I'd starting groping him. God knows I wanted him; he was this strategic, criminal mastermind...and I wanted him all the fucking time.

Oswald could exercise more control apparently since he tightened his belt from where I'd slowly been unbuckling it and placed his hands on my face, urging me to look at him. I did.

"Get dressed, Sylvia." He said gently.

"I don't want to get dressed." I pouted. "I'd rather lie on this couch, naked. You can join me."

"No."

"You can keep your clothes on, if that'd make you more willing."

"These businessmen are coming over in less than five minutes. I will not have you in attendance during this meeting wearing nothing under this," Oswald said, gesturing to the robe. "Do as I ask, please."

There was a harsh knock at the door.

I looked at Oswald pointedly, saying, "Since you said 'please'."

I stood to my feet, staggering slightly. I closed the bedroom door, hearing three people come in and greet Oswald warmly. I dressed in jeans and a dark red tank-top, no shoes, and pulled my hair up in a ponytail.

The men had convened in the kitchen, sitting around the dining table, with Oswald at the head. That piercing need to take him for myself in the kitchen was nearly overwhelming; instead of embarrassing him like that, I decided to make hors d'oeuvres.

When I had walked into the room, I noticed two things in particular. All three of the guests were watching me with a sudden look of surprise and simultaneous satisfaction. And Oswald appeared curiously restrained while the men ogled me.

"This is Sylvia," He said, gesturing to me. "She'll be joining us."

I smiled at them.

"Hi." I greeted, waving.

The three of them emitted similar responses of equity. I busied myself, making the appetizer, poured myself a glass of tea, then offered drinks to the guests.

"Beer." All three requested.

I gave them what they asked, and turned to Oswald.

"Anything for you, Sweetheart?"

Oswald shook his head.

The meeting began. I sat beside Oswald on his right-hand side.

"You all know why you are here," He began. "You three are one of the most successful gangs around Gotham. It's custom that we make the agreement clear to all parties involved."

"Sure." They all vocalized understanding.

"You will rob Bamonte's Restaurant," Oswald instructed. "Taking more than half of what Don Maroni has hidden. Most of it will be in the back of the restaurant, located behind two swinging double doors. Once inside, you may shoot anyone that gets in your way, provided that Sylvia is spared, and myself included."

"You want us to rob the joint—Don Maroni's joint," said one of them.

"Daunting as the task seems," Oswald said ironically, "there's a highlight that you fine gentlemen may want to consider before you turn it down."

"What's that?" muttered one of the younger souls.

"What money you acquire from the restaurant, you will be permitted to keep."

The guests appeared suddenly more eager to keep the contract.

"There must be a few guards inside that joint, though," said one of the wiser guests. "We'll have to go in and storm…. probably wear masks or something."

Oswald held up his hands, saying, "I'll leave the method of completing this task entirely in your capable hands. Just as long as it gets done."

"And what about the owner?"

I scoffed, "Shoot him."

Everyone in the kitchen, Oswald included, looked at me, startled. I hadn't really said a thing since this meeting had started. The guests looked at Oswald uncertainly, waiting for him to agree.

"You heard her." Oswald snickered, grinning at me. "Shoot him."

"We take down the restaurant, take the money, shoot the owner….and make sure nothing happens to you or her. We keep whatever we take." The third of the guests to not have spoken until now summarized the plan. "Sounds simple enough."

"Then we have an agreement." Oswald stated, standing to his feet. The others did the same. "It's great doing business with you."

They shook his hand, drank the rest of their beers, and then headed out. I looked after them, tilting my head to the side. Oswald walked them out, closing the door when the last one had left. The locks were put in place, then he turned to me.

"That went better than I thought it would," Oswald said, walking back into the kitchen.

"You don't think they'll screw up?" I asked coolly, drinking the rest of my own beverage.

"They have a lot more at stake if they do." Oswald said, taking his seat. "And you, my dear. What an _excellent_ idea having them shoot Lou. Did you come up with that all by yourself?"

"Don't patronize me. You want him dead just as much as I do. I can't take his fucking attitude or his insufferable need to please Maroni. It's a disgusting display."

Oswald balanced his head in the palm of his hand, supported by his elbow.

"You make the perfect housewife, you know. Greeting our guests politely, offering them drinks."

I gave him a look, saying, "Please don't tell me that was a proposal."

Oswald lightly laughed: "Of course not. If I propose, _you'll_ know it's happening."

I stood from my chair and moved onto his lap.

And he gave me a look of curiosity but one of enticement. His fondness for me had grown since he'd come back from the dead and I had welcomed him with open arms. And now, after the business meeting that involved murder and robbery, Oswald's fondness had only increased tenfold. Perhaps it was my easy-going attitude towards this open contract to disembowel Maroni's own business and get rid of our own boss that did the trick.

"I wouldn't mind being your wife," I told him with a smile.

He took my hand in his, rubbing my knuckles in concentric circles with the pad of his thumb.

"I want it more than anything," He returned.

"You need only ask me," I reminded.

He lifted my hand to his lips, and kissed the tips of my fingers.

"Not yet." Oswald said quietly.

He could make me feel like the most special person in the entire world with the softness of his voice and gentle caresses.

"If not now, when?" I asked.

"When the time is right."

He caressed the line of my jaw, his eyes following his own fingers.

"You deserve to have everything," Oswald said quietly. "You _will_ have everything."

The need to fuck him had been shoved away during the meeting with his business associates, but now his soft touches and promises were bringing the heat back. His voice could do so many things to me. The way he looked at me like I was his moon and stars.

"I _do_ have everything," I mumbled, closing my eyes and getting lost to his touch. "I have _you_."

I felt his lips on mine before I could comprehend it. His hand on my neck moved lower to my chest, his fingers groping my breasts through my tank and bra. Steadily, his breathing had become heavy. I stood up, and he did so right after me. I lifted myself onto the edge of the table, smirking when he made quick disposal of my jeans, which fell on the kitchen tile.

"Businessmen with guns," I giggled. "Provided they actually do what they're told, what then?"

I pulled my tank top over my head, and the bra came off next so I was left in my panties. Oswald dressed down to match me, removing his jacket and throwing it over the chair. Seeing him wearing the vest and tie over a collared white shirt—so simple the design, and yet it created a deeper ache between my legs.

"I'm endearing myself to Maroni," Oswald said calmly.

"Hence the Italian name, 'Paolo'. So, the robbery is a ploy," I mused. "Maroni sees you've saved what little you could and then he promotes you through the ranks."

"Caught on, have you?" Oswald returned arrogantly.

I grabbed his tie and pulled him towards me. I captured his lips with mine. He managed to hold his balance, but just enough.

"You're a criminal mastermind," I whispered.

"But only just," Oswald pointed out.

"Meaning?"

He shed the rest of his clothes, bending down to take off his shoes and socks. When he straightened, I shoved my mouth against his once more, biting him. He groaned in response.

"I'm going to be someone in this town," said Oswald confidently.

"I never doubted that."

"When I am, there will be nothing I would deny you." Oswald whispered, kissing my lower lip. "As long as you will not deny me."

I lied back on the table, smiling up at him. Offering myself. He cradled my lower half in his arms, lifting up my hips. He sifted my panties from the source of my heat and I felt his tongue lick my clit. I was already wet, but I could feel myself becoming wetter. The slickness of my pussy, the clenching muscles inside, the heat of my face only becoming hotter. A small whimper escaped me.

"Don't give me that whine," Oswald muttered darkly. "You love being teased."

"I do…." I confessed.

All the evidence pointed to the obvious. My toes curled, my heart raced, and I was edging between the earth and its blissful abyss. I could feel Oswald's eyes on me, watching my face contort in pleasure and need. His tongue licked my clit, massaging its center, and then delved deep inside my very core, fucking me. And my legs began to tremble. Arching my back, I could feel my climax building.

My fingers gripped the edge of the table.

_Almost…._

His tongue left my body, and his fingers replaced the emptiness. I opened my eyes, and saw him watching me intensely. He finger-fucked my pussy, finding the most sensitive spot and curling his fingers at the perfect moment. I was slowly becoming undone.

"You need me, don't you?" Oswald said knowingly. His voice was hoarse with lust. His eyes bearing down on me.

"Yes, _please_."

All the incentive it took was my breathy and wanton consent. He grabbed both sides of my panties and ripped them down my legs. Such violence and aggression—it made me want him inside me even more.

He lined the tip of his cock along my swollen center, and I heard him chuckle.

"You need to relax," Oswald told me, rubbing my clit slowly in clockwise circles.

I was so tight with desire, he couldn't even get in. I had to chuckle at myself, honestly. I made an effort to calm down, to forcefully stop my muscles from clenching. I widened my legs apart, biting my lip when I felt a rush of instant bliss cloud my thoughts when Oswald slowly pushed inside of me. The wetness of my sex welcomed him.

He let out a long, satisfied moan.

"Oh my god…." He whispered.

He took my hips in his grip, slowly moving in and out of me, savoring the wet depths. My own hand still gripped the table's edge as I continued to force myself to relax, not to clench the cock that slid in and out.

I moaned his name.

"Say it again," Oswald groaned.

I said his name again. I felt his cock twitch happily inside of me. His slow, calculating thrusts evolved. I couldn't relax anymore, and I allowed my body to squeeze. Oswald grinned blissfully, eyes rolling into the back of his head, feeling just how wet and tight I was for him. With every skin-slapping thrust, the table beneath me shook; the beer bottles left by the businessmen quivered and then fell off the table, shattering.

I wrapped my legs around his waist as Oswald quickened his pace.

Edging between the abyss and my inevitable climax had become too much for me, and I had inadvertently begun screaming in pleasure. His hand clamped over my mouth, but that only made me more excited. His other hand was placed over the cradle of my hip, his thumb rubbing my clit vigorously, causing my body to shake.

"Stop fighting it," Oswald growled.

He called me on it—the orgasm was just teetering, and I could go at any moment. Oswald pressed the rest of weight on me, his thrusts hard and fast. His teeth grazed my ear lobe, as he urged, "Let go. Give into it, Pet."

 _Pet_.

That's all it took, hearing that little name. It immediately made me submissive, and took all the fight out of me. I did as I was told, and I completely gave into the orgasm; it took over my body, seizing every muscle, clouding my mind.

"That's it," Oswald moaned. "Good girl."

_Good girl._

His body shook with mine. His cock twitched and released himself inside of me, sending me off into another orgasm.

When I recovered, I was covered in sweat, but perpetually satisfied. He straightened, and I smiled at him.

"Incredible," Oswald muttered.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Lunch and Blood**

Jim had asked me out for a luncheon.

It was a nameless restaurant in the better part of Gotham. Good food, good service, for the most part. We were seated by a waiter who also worked at _Bamonte's Restaurant,_ same place as me. He had two kids, no wife, being a single parent. I made it my personal mission to leave the guy a tip before we left.

I sat across from Jim, who faced the exit. As a cop, he had the constant vigilance built inside himself to face all exits, and likewise to know where the nearest bathroom was located, in any case we decided to jump on the heavier fiber train.

"How have you been?" Jim asked curiously, taking his silverware out of the folded napkin then the straw out of its plastic wrapping—even though we didn't have food or beverages delivered to us just yet.

He was fidgeting.

"Why do you look so anxious?" I asked. "More than usual, anyway."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I grinned at him, knowing him too well. This was more than just a lunch date with a sibling. He looked like he needed to say something or ask a very important question. His very affect said that much, and while he could fidget with his straw or look like he was at ease, I could tell the difference. Ever since he found out that I was dating Oswald Cobblepot, Jim had taken on this odd, aloof persona.

"This was pretty random," I stated, gesturing to the restaurant. "You never want to go out and eat."

"I thought it was a nice change."

"New change of scenery from your cop buddies?"

Jim's response was hallowed: "Something like that."

I tilted my head to the side. He looked at me knowingly. Just as I knew him.

"What's this really about?" I questioned, taking a sip of my coke.

"I'm having lunch with my sister. Why does that sound odd to you?"

"You normally call me every day to check in, and you haven't call me in _days_ ," I noted. "You invite me out to this restaurant, when I _know_ you don't like eating out. Just seems like you want to tell me something."

"Maybe _you_ should be a detective," Jim muttered sarcastically.

"My point is that this isn't a social visit," I stated, interlacing my fingers on the table. "You have something to say to me. Or something to ask, right?"

Jim gave me a look.

"You're not great with segues, Jimbo," I told him, leaning back. "You're direct. You're to the point, and this whole _thing…_." I gestured to the restaurant scene. "This isn't you. So, tell me what's on your mind."

Jim dropped the act entirely, leaning forward.

"Falcone and Maroni. They're at war with each other for Arkham."

"And?" I returned carelessly. "What else is new? _Everyone_ wants a slice of Arkham."

"Depending on whoever gets it may result in a city-wide gang war." Jim hissed, glaring at me. "You must know something about it."

"Why would I know anything about Arkham?"

Jim rolled his eyes.

"Come on. Help me out here."

"Is this about what _he_ told you?" I questioned coolly.

'He' being Oswald. Jim and I didn't have to mention his name to know who we were talking about. Sibling telepathy, maybe, but it was the only name that Jim wouldn't dare enunciate unless it was within the privacy of his or my home.

"He knows more about what's going on with Arkham than me," I admitted.

"Councilmen are dying off, Sylvia."

"Sounds more like a public service."

"Sylvia!"

" _What_?" I exclaimed. "The more fucked-up politicians that get offed, the better Gotham is, right?"

"Has he told you anything?" Jim questioned.

"Has _he_ told you something?" I rounded, pointing at him.

Jim frowned.

Oswald _had_ spoken to him. The evidence was clear.

"He said that Maroni put out another hit on someone, someone backing Falcone's plan, the _Wayne_ plan. I don't have much time," Jim said, shaking his head. "I don't trust him to tell me the name, even if he knew it."

"But you'd trust me to tell you?"

"You would, wouldn't you? If it came down to saving a life, you would let me know what he knew, right?"

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms.

"First things first, okay?" I said coolly. "Please don't ever make me choose between you and him. That's not fair to either of you, and certainly not fair to me. Secondly, _he_ knows more about Gotham and its sewers better than me. If he doesn't know who's getting whacked first, then _I_ don't."

"I didn't ask you to choose between us."

"It sounded like it," I muttered, glaring at him.

Jim shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Think about it, Jimmy." I insisted, leaning forward pointedly. "He said someone is targeted, someone backing Falcone's side. If all the councilmen that voted for Falcone are dead, then there wouldn't be another target, right?"

"Right."

"So, who else has made it publicly known that they're endorsing it?" I asked.

Jim smiled suddenly, placing his hand on mine.

"Thank you." He said, obviously someone had popped into his head as a possible target. "I'll be right back. I'm going to make a phone call."

"Assuming Harvey Bullock picks up the phone," I pointed out, rolling my eyes.

Jim stepped to the side, made his call. Bullock told him something urgent apparently, because Jim returned to the table, looking unhappy and reluctant. I recognized that look all too well and waved my hand at him.

"Go." I sighed. "Save another life, Jimmy."

"We'll do lunch another time, okay?" He said hurriedly.

"Yep."

He kissed my forehead then quickly headed out.

I pulled out the twenty that Maroni had given to me in passing for a job well done, and placed the same one on the table for the single parent waiter. He needed it more than me. I left the restaurant so as to start my shift at another diner.

I was dressed in my red and white waitress' apparel, all pretty and the like. It was a normal day, for the most part. I wasn't certain _when_ the 'businessmen' would enact their robbery. According to Oswald, it had to be impromptu and naturally surprise the both of us if it was going to appear authentic. And it did the job.

Out of nowhere, three burglars dressed in black and wearing panty hose over their heads ( _Panty hose_ of all things) stormed inside the restaurant, carrying shot guns and pistols. Immediate panic struck the guests as they all dodged, running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Lou was quick to dial the number (not likely 911) and just as I made a motion to get out of the fucking way, he snatched my wrist and pulled me in front of him.

I became his fucking human shield.

At first the men looked confused, knowing they would have to shoot the manager, but they clearly didn't want to shoot me.

Pissed off that on top of being an insufferable prick, Lou turned out to be a coward as well, I shouted "Let go of me, you ass!"

"You all best get the hell out of here—Maroni's men are on their way!" Lou threatened.

I slammed my fist into his groin and Lou whined. The robbers before me winced as Lou bent down to get his breath back. I quickly dodged out of their way, scrambling underneath the table. I heard Lou cry out for mercy before he was gunned down and his body hit the table above me.

One of the younger robbers bent down under the table.

"Hey! You okay!"

"I'm fine!" I hissed. "What the fuck are you doing—get out of here!"

They quickly left with the money, tossing the panty hose as they jumped into the van and drove off with almost all of Maroni's money. I crawled out from underneath the table, grimacing when I felt some of Lou's blood fall on my shoulder as I straightened. Then I headed into the kitchen, searching for Oswald, but was stopped short.

"NOT SO FAST!"

I screamed at the top of my lungs when I felt someone lunge for me, holding me close to him. I turned and saw that it was the remainder of the so-called businessmen, panty hose still on his head.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I demanded. "You're pretty much going to ruin the whole fucking thing. Why are you still here!"

"Taking what's mine—"

"Where the fuck did you even come from!" I snapped, attempting to get out of his grip.

Literally, this fucker had come out of nowhere. He was one of them though. I smelled booze on his breath; he'd taken some Jack Daniels for a pint of courage. I struggled to get out of his grip, kicking and punching. He pushed me down on the table, face first into Lou's dead body, blood touching my lips and copper smell filling my nostrils.

"We got the money, now I'm getting the girl!"

 _This was not part of the deal, man_!

He pushed up my dress, and grabbed my ass.

"STOP!"

"Don't worry," He chuckled. "You'll like it."

"I'm saying 'no'!"

He grabbed my head, slamming it on the table. I was disorientated, but very much aware of his hands feeling me up.

The gun. In Lou's pocket.

I saw it, like a gleaming sword sticking out from Lou's dinner jacket, the inner pocket.

I heard the prick say, "I'll give you the best fuck of your life…."

Several footsteps barreled into the restaurant, the small ring of the bell as the door closed. I turned at that moment, cocked the gun, and shot the son of a bitch in the face.

I was panting from struggling, and thanks to the asshole, I was covered in Lou's blood, front and back. I quickly pulled up my panties that had been forced down my legs, smoothed out my skirt, and realized I stood in front of Maroni's men, including Frankie Carbone.

"Holy shit." Frankie muttered, glancing down at the dead man's mangled face. He turned to his pals, saying, "Check the back."

His back-up moved past me. Frankie looked at me. He was a pig, but even for a guy like him, his face revealed a depth of concern on my behalf.

"You gonna be okay?" He asked.

I nodded.

He patted my shoulder, and then moved with his boys in the back. I followed them, watching Frankie follow bloody footprints to the freezer. He opened it, and there was Oswald, holding the money. He pretended to be scared, even expressed concern about Lou. Frankie quieted him down, telling him to save it for the boss. They helped him out of the freezer.

Oswald took one look at me and was full of questions.

Covered from head to toe in Lou's blood, even my face, he sensed that something had gone amiss. But now was not the time to talk about it. Frankie excused me for the rest of the day. I washed up in the bathroom, happy to note that I brought in an extra pair of clothes as I always did for a backup. I threw my work clothes in the bin, knowing I would be able to get a newer one from…. well, from whoever would be running the show now that Lou was dead.

I went home without another word.

Later that night, Jim called me and asked if I wanted to do lunch tomorrow.

I declined.

I was asleep when Oswald had come home. When the door closed, I became more aware of my surroundings, listening to him move throughout the apartment; I was familiar with the characteristics of his footsteps, which quieted when he stepped onto the carpet in the bedroom. The bed shifted with his weight as he crawled under the covers beside me, his arms wrapping around my stomach, pulling me to him.

I turned on my back, looking up at him.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Oswald asked quietly.

"You first." I returned just as quietly.

Oswald smiled, saying, "Don Maroni will be visiting the restaurant tomorrow. Mr. Carbone is going to tell him what happened, and he'll end up talking to me."

"It all worked out then, the plan?"

"Perfectly."

I smiled saying, "I'm happy for you, Ozzie."

Oswald placed his hand on my cheek, his thumb stroking my bottom lip.

"Something happened, didn't it?" Oswald asked knowingly.

At first, I said nothing.

"Honey?"

"Yes." I admitted almost immediately.

"Please tell me what happened."

I hesitated at first. It would come out eventually, I was for certain. I took his hand and moved it from my face, placing it over my heartbeat. I was certain he could feel it with it thumping so loudly.

"One of their own. They stayed behind when the others got the money."

"And what happened?"

I sat up.

"He tried to rape me." I let it come out as dry as it did. My emotions had long since passed about the incident and I only said it as a fact at this point.

Oswald, on the other hand, hadn't been able to process this. Instead, he was set a frenzy.

"HE DID WHAT!"

I caught his wrist and pulled him back into bed before he could do anything.

"Yes." I said calmly. "He did."

"Did he….?" Oswald motioned to me, wanting to know.

"No." I returned. "He didn't even get close."

"Sylvia, I am—"

"Uh-uh." I put my hand over his mouth. "No apologies from you. And I don't think his buddies knew he was going to try anything. So, it's not their fault either."

Oswald's eyes were ice.

"I hope you made him pay for it," He said dangerously, his voice shaking.

"I did. I shot him in the face." I said, grinning widely.

Oswald smiled, saying, "Good enough, I suppose."

I pecked him on the cheek.

"What's done is done," I told him lightly. "Let's not let this get in the way of your success, yeah?"

"But Sylvia…."

"No more talk." I insisted. "Please."

"If that's what you want," Oswald returned dutifully.

He moved closer and lied beside me. His arms pulled me towards him once more, and I snuggled in his protective embrace.

* * *

**Chapter 7: Charmed and Promoted**

Several of my Regulars left me some pretty good tips when they left the restaurant. I pocketed half and then side-stepped to one of the waiters who worked with me…. his name was Tom, I think, who had the two kids. I gave him forty bucks, and he thanked me. Tom was a good guy, hard worker, and he was the only one in the restaurant that didn't refer to 'Paolo' as Penguin. For that, I respected him. My only thing about him was that he always asked me to take his shifts and it was becoming more and more frequent as the days went on.

It was about the time that Maroni would be coming in with his pals when Tom, the youthful brunette that he was, stopped me short in the kitchen, asking if I would take his shift so he could pick up his kids from soccer. Saying I would, he gratefully thanked me and then headed out as quick as his legs could take him.

I watched him leave.

It was hard to figure out whether he was just excited to leave so he could see his kids' soccer tournament play out for the last ten minutes, or maybe it was all just a lie and he wanted to quickly bang a chick who suddenly had become available.

Either way, I was going to be on my feet for the next six hours.

 _No breaks for the hard-working_.

"...People pissing me off left and right—and Falcone thinks he can do this to me!"

Maroni's voice filled the diner as soon as he came inside. Frankie Carbone probably just laid down the news for him.

"He thinks he can hit me—in my home—and thinks I won't hit him back! He's gonna have another thing coming!" Maroni bellowed.

I picked up the plates and bowls from the other abandoned tables, walking past the two men. I noticed there was still blood on the table from where Lou had died. His body was gone, but the pool of blood had remained overnight.

 _Gross_.

I strode past the chef, who eyed me curiously. I hadn't said much of anything to the other employees since the robbery. They'd all run out, and some had even been injured in the incident. I thought that my episode the night before had been completely erased from my mind with the help of vodka, but when I had entered the restaurant, I had a flashback. My dress being yanked up above my ass, my panties being forced down my legs…. I was in a state of calm for now, but the memory made me feel like I might gag.

I had never truly experienced an act of violence before. There was a first for everyone in Gotham, I guess. Mine just happened to be at my workplace. Undoubtedly, Frankie Carbone had mentioned it to Maroni since the Don glanced at me cautiously, perhaps with worry or maybe with genuine curiosity.

"I want to hit him back," said Maroni, clenching his fists. "This time where it hurts. I want to hit the Mouth! His time's up."

"I'll take care of it," reassured Frankie. "Then there's the other thing…."

Both Maroni and Frankie turned their heads in Oswald's direction.

"Send him over," Maroni ordered.

While they were going to talk to him, I saw two more customers arriving. I walked past the Don, greeting the guests with a smile.

"Booth or table?"

"Table." The customers said cheerfully.

"Please follow me," I said sweetly, holding three menus for the family and they followed me.

I showed them to their seats. I was within ear shot of Maroni as the Don spoke to Oswald.

"You know I'm a man that shows appreciation where appreciation is due," said Don Maroni, business-like.

"Yes, Don Maroni." Oswald answered.

"What you did for me yesterday did not go unnoticed." Maroni said gallantly.

"Thank you, sir. I only wish I was able to retrieve the other—" Oswald began, but Maroni stopped him.

"How long you been washing dishes?"

"Not long," said Oswald truthfully.

"That ends today," Maroni stated. "You've been promoted to restaurant manager…. the job recently became available."

Oswald was all smiles. I tended to the customers who asked for water, water, and an apple juice (they had a five-year-old son). I started towards the kitchen, bringing the chef the orders, but Maroni held out his arm, blocking my path. I looked at him pointedly, glancing at Oswald, who looked just as concerned.

"Good afternoon, Sylvia."

I smiled politely saying, "Ah, you remembered my name. Good afternoon yourself, Don Maroni."

Maroni looked at Frankie, saying, "Get the kid a suit. I need to talk to this one."

Frankie handed Oswald some major cash as Maroni pulled me aside. Maroni glanced at Oswald curiously, then to me.

"Frankie told me what happened yesterday," said Maroni, clasping his hands in front of him as he looked at me somberly. "He told me what he walked into. I'm sorry that happened to you, Sylvia."

"Nothing happened to me," I reminded him calmly.

"Because you didn't let it." He smiled proudly at me. "Frankie tells me you shot one of them—one of the men that robbed me."

"Right in the face, sir."

"Son of a bitch deserved it. So, let me ask you this question," said Maroni seriously. "Something like that happens to you at work, and you come back the next day, pretending everything is just peachy. How does a woman like you do that, I wonder?"

"Very carefully," I joked.

Maroni chuckled, "You have a dark, twisted sense of humor, don't you, Sylvia?"

"As dark as it comes," I returned charmingly.

Maroni saw me look over his shoulder. He saw that Oswald was still there, watching me, a protective look in his eye. Maroni seemed to put two-and-two together. He gestured for Oswald to join us. And he did so.

"This is your girl, isn't she?" Maroni asked Oswald, looking at me pointedly.

"Yes, sir." Oswald answered dutifully.

"Bit of a pistol." Maroni chuckled, smirking.

He seemed amused by the fact that Oswald and I were an item. As to why, I couldn't figure just right there. Maroni held out his hand for me to shake. I took it, and he kissed the back of it just as charmingly as he had done before.

"You have gumption," Maroni stated. "Not a lot of people have that anymore—especially in Gotham. You take care now, you hear?"

"Always."

Maroni chuckled and walked out of the diner with Frankie.

I strode into GCPD.

Jim and I had been playing phone tag, but not without incident. I figured I put an end to the game and come to his workplace for a visit.

I wore my blue jeans and a red, spaghetti tank top. Fish's mark had scarred on my collar bone, but thankfully, it was light. My fair and pale complexion nearly covered it up for which I was grateful. The heel of my laced-up boots clicked the wooden tile and only stopped as I was greeted by the police officers warmly. They knew me as Jim Gordon's little sister. Family to the ones I had known the longest, and eye candy to those who didn't get a proper introduction.

The first to greet me was Capt. Essen. She was a dark woman, a nice lady with black curly hair, sometimes worn down or pulled back in a ponytail. I held five boxes of cheese pizza, figuring I might as well visit all my brothers and sisters, and not just the blood relative. She carried them in the break room, and no announcement was needed as they all smelled the aroma.

I quickly stepped aside, chuckling along with her when the Calvary was called.

"How have you been, Sylvia?" Essen asked, embracing me in her arms.

"So-so," I answered vaguely.

"Jim tells us you're no longer working at Mooney's—that must be relaxing for a change."

I shrugged, saying, "I traded one angry boss for another."

"Any hope of changing that?"

"Maybe," I said, smiling secretively. "My boss was recently fired, so we'll see how the new one works out."

"Maybe you'll get a raise," Essen suggested positively.

"Only time will tell," I said smoothly.

" _Sylvia_?"

I turned to see Jim heading down the stairs, greeting me. We hugged briefly.

"Coming to celebrate with us, huh?" Jim asked.

"Well, you didn't answer your phone when I called, so I thought I would make it a surprise," I returned slyly. "You've been busy."

Essen could see that we were about to have a sibling chat, so she excused herself politely, patting us both on the shoulders before leaving us. Jim looked at me. And I recognized the troubled glint in his eye. Knowing I'd eventually get him talking, he answered my unspoken question.

"It's Barbara," Jim muttered, rolling his eyes. The cynicism only covered what lurked beneath the surface.

"Did she make you choose?" I asked curiously.

"She might as well have," Jim said.

"How does it feel?" I returned sarcastically.

"Don't."

"I'm just proving a point," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "So, she wants you to choose between your work and her, right?"

"She wants me to choose between letting her in or letting her go."

"So, let her in," I offered.

"The last time I talked to her about my work, she called the newspapers." Jim grumbled, massaging his temples.

"So then let her go."

"She's my fiancée. I can't let her go."

"Well, then you're at a crossroads, aren't you, Jimmy?" I returned gently, patting his shoulder. "Barbara's pretty stubborn, too, like you...like me. Odds are, she won't let this go. So, you might as well just make up your damn mind right now, huh?"

Jim gave me a look, saying, "You _really_ think it's that easy."

"For me, it would be. Choosing between the love of my life or my work would be exceptionally easy for me. Since my job is absolute shit." I remarked apathetically. "You love your job, you love Barbara. Let her in, but don't let her in so much."

"Easier said than done," Jim mumbled.

"You'll find the balance," I encouraged. "You always do."

Jim smiled at me.

"You ever figure out who the target was?" I asked, jumping on a different topic.

"The mayor," said Jim.

"Mm…. That would definitely have been my guess."

"Isn't that what you were trying to tell me?"

"Honestly," I admitted, "I was blowing smoke up your ass and thinking whatever I said might jog those brain juices of yours."

Jim gave me a look again as though I had told him the secret behind a legendary magic trick and it was all smoke and mirrors. It was like his spirit was crushed.

"You have a dark, twisted sick sense of humor. You know that, right?" Jim said, shaking his head.

"So, I have been told," I returned, thinking of Maroni.

"Hey, it's my main girl, Sylvia!"

"Hello to you too, Harvey," I chuckled as he came around from behind and clapped me hard on the back.

"How the hell have you been?" Harvey nearly shouted, holding a slice of pizza in one hand, beer in the other.

"It's like one in the afternoon," I noted. "Drinking already?"

"I always crack open the juice around this time," Harvey said casually, dropping a large string of cheese in his mouth. "Gets me through the day, don't it, Jim?"

"So, it does," Jim noted, agreeing more out of reluctance.

"How you been?" Harvey asked sheepishly, nudging my shoulder. "Fish was asking about you."

"Has she, now?" I asked dryly.

"Harvey, not now," Jim muttered.

"Yeah," said Harvey, ignoring Jim, "She's always talking about you…. Certainly hates you now. You bite her or something?"

"I did," I returned proudly. "Best moment of my life."

"Can't say the thought hasn't crossed my mind once or twice, but you know...I'd have done it differently," Harvey snickered, winking at me.

"Seriously, Harvey?" Jim grumbled. "That's not an image I want in my head."

"Your sister and Fish biting each other," chuckled Harvey, grinning widely. "That's the _only_ image I've had in my head since I found out."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Jim muttered, meaning to walk away.

"Just kidding, Jimbo!" Harvey called after him. He turned to me, all smug. "Seriously though. Fish _has_ asked about you, where you might be working or doing something. She hasn't seen you in the club or anything."

"She told me never to come back," I reminded him calmly. "I figure it was the least I could do."

"Why did she fire you anyway?" asked Harvey.

I shrugged in response.

Harvey was about to ask me another question but the television was turned up in volume, drawing our attention. Harvey and I moved to the office where Jim was leaning against the doorway, watching the news. On it, Gotham's own Mayor James was reporting the latest result of the Arkham Vote.

"The Arkham district will be developed into low-cost housing as well as a much-needed waste disposal site. This is the best of both plans, together in one. As for Arkham Asylum, it will be retrofitted for modern standards and reopened. Gotham deserves a world-class treatment facility for the mentally ill." Mayor James reported.

I sighed, saying, "Our mayor is a bit of a putz, isn't he?"

Harvey glanced at me, as did Jim, both thinking the same thing.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Stairs and Dinner**

1...2….3….4….5….

The elevator was broken, so now I was forced to use the stairs.

6...7….8….9….

Counting the steps seemed to pass the time. On the plus side, Oswald had come home early before the elevator had gone kaput—lucky him.

10….11….13….14….

I started jumping the stairs, two at a time.

16….18….21….

I managed to skip three steps, but god, I certainly wasn't about to do the _splits_ up that many flights.

_Back to two, I guess._

Oswald had gone home early, being the restaurant manager that he was. He was hiring more people to replace the ones that had died in the unfortunate robbery incident. For that matter, Oswald had even gone home earlier than a manager's normal hours than I expected. What he had been up to for the last five hours, I certainly couldn't imagine.

Maybe I didn't want to.

40….42….44….

Who am I kidding though? I wanted to know. Oswald had lifted a great deal of the financial burden off my shoulders, insisting that he pay rent on my apartment, and even the insurance on my car. A gentleman, he was, but that seemed like a lot of money.

50….52, 53,54—mind the cat on the step—56….

Where did he get the money, though? Restaurant managers earned a great deal more than dishwashers and waitresses, certainly, but enough to pay all my finances was a huge jump in financial stability.

 _Fuck these steps—they really need to fix that fucking elevator_.

While I couldn't be bothered with the payments from the other companies, I was certain that Oswald had other things going on that I didn't know about. I wasn't worried about him cheating on me—even banging a high-class married whore wouldn't give him that much money. Plus, he seemed completely endeared to me.

The money had come from somewhere, but I knew not where. And I hadn't even thought about it until I was forced to go up these flights of stairs.

70….72— ** _ahh_**!

Goddamn kids, leaving their toys on the fucking steps. I nearly broke my neck!

And what happened to the men that Oswald had met with the other night? Yes, the one I shot was dead, but that didn't account for the other three. Were they in hiding because the police _and_ Maroni were out for their necks? It was something to be considered.

Then I wondered. Speaking of not hearing about someone in a while, when was he going to let his mother know he was even alive? That woman….Gertrud Kapelput….Maroni wanted to talk about _me_ being a pistol.

90….91….

Try having _her_ go up all these stairs, she'd have the apartment complex's owner within her many-ringed fingers.

92….

Maybe that wasn't a bad idea.

 _Let's have Mother Cobblepot over for a visit_ , I thought pointedly. It's not like she was not calling my phone every hour on the other hour asking if I had seen her precious son. She was a sweet little lady, believe me, but when it regarded her son, the woman had teeth!

100….102….104….fucking killing my legs here….105….105….105….I just need a breather…

I slumped against the wall, sighing deeply.

Right before Oswald had gone and disappeared (no thanks to my wonderful brother), Gertrud and I had briefly met. She regarded me politely, but ultimately, I was the threat that would take her son away from her. She and Oswald were fairly close. I couldn't say the same about _my_ mother.

She'd gushed for twenty minutes about how elegant her son was, and, oh, the fond memories they had spent together. Oswald, of course, turned beet red when Gertrud mentioned that Oswald never really had many girlfriends and how he didn't always get along with the other children because they resented his intelligence.

'Envy and spite', she said. That's why they disliked him.

140….141….142….

Oswald had introduced me to her as a 'friend'. Nothing more, nothing less. Seeing how close the bond was between mother and son, I was almost grateful that I had been mentioned as such. The woman's eyes could have killed me. She was a protective little soul, glaring daggers.

Since his disappearance, she was calling me and telling me to 'bring her son back'. I think one time, she called me a 'hussy' and how I had him tangled up in my 'demon purse'. Since I was the only person she'd ever seen with Oswald, introduced to Mama Cobblepot, I became the prime suspect for her son's disappearance. But she was a nice woman. She loved her son, that much could be said. Despite the annoyance of her acclamation that I was a slut, I still thought she was a nice woman. A little misguided, maybe, but otherwise, pretty nice.

160….161…. _almost there_.

Twentieth floor...why did I have to live on the twentieth floor.

By the time I'd gotten all the way up, I was sweating and hurting.

 _God, I am out of shape_.

I took out my key, unlocked the door and opened it. It was my turn to come in and see a drunken lover, sitting on the couch. The sight itself was pretty hot.

Oswald Cobblepot sat on the couch, watching what I could hear was the news, drinking from a wine glass. His hair was a mess, his jacket was placed on top of the couch, tie dangling over it; his vest was a little wrinkled from slouching, and the cuffs and collar of his white long-sleeve shirt he wore underneath were both undone. His feet were on the table, crossed at the ankle.

And he looked like he was relaxed-drunk, instead of haggard-drunk. A good sign as any.

I slowly closed the door, locking it behind me.

"Where have you been?" Oswald asked.

His words didn't exactly slur, but I could definitely tell he had been drinking for at least a couple of hours.

"Climbing the stairs," I said breathlessly. "At one point, _literally_."

I tossed my apron over my head and onto the floor, stepping out of my heels. Oswald watched me, his lips slightly parted.

"How was work?" Oswald asked, smiling a little.

"So-so," I answered. "Tom had to pick up his kids again, so I worked the late shift."

"That's the third time this week," Oswald pointed out, lifting his glass and drinking from it.

"I noticed that too."

I leaned against the wall, rubbing my ankles.

"Should I say something to him?" Oswald asked me.

"It's not my position to say whether or not you should," I relented.

"Maybe I should," Oswald mumbled. He took his feet off the table in favor of leaning forward and pouring another glass of wine.

I picked up my heels, and apron, casually walking into the bathroom and throwing the apron in the hamper. I took a quick shower, just long enough to wash my hair and body, then got out, wrapping a towel around my chest, and a spritz of vanilla for the feel of coming out of a spa. When I walked into the living room, Oswald hadn't moved at all. Eyes facing front, looking at the television.

Mayor James was on the news, going on about the newest development of the Arkham district, and how great it was for Gotham.

"Have you had anything to eat, Oz?"

"Hmm?"

He craned his head to look at me.

"Have you eaten anything?" I asked. "Cherry garnishes don't count."

"No." He answered dully.

"Do you want anything?"

"Not really."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'." I replied coolly.

Oswald meticulously stood to his feet. The alcohol didn't hit completely until he, too, was a little surprised by how unbalanced he was. He quickly grabbed the back of the couch until the world stopped spinning. Then he hobbled into the room, leaning his figure against the walkway arch that separated the living room and kitchen.

"You hear anything on the news about the gang?" Oswald asked, narrowing his eyes to refocus his vision as I walked around the kitchen.

"Which gang?"

"The one I hired to rob the restaurant," Oswald answered.

"I haven't." I turned to look at him. "Should I have heard something?"

"Maybe," Oswald said, smirking at me. "Maybe it isn't news worthy. But I thought it might interest you."

"What may interest me?"

Oswald sauntered fully into the kitchen, his hands on the back of one of the dining chairs as he leaned forward.

"They're dead." Oswald snickered. "All of them."

I put on some tea, turning on the stove before turning to him.

"'Dead'?" I repeated.

"Dead." Oswald reiterated, smirking at me.

"How so?"

He pointed at himself.

"You killed them?" I asked.

"Wasn't hard." Oswald returned modestly. "They _love C_ annoli."

I stared at him, confused, until I realized what he meant.

He poisoned them. That certainly explained the lack of correspondence between our friends. If he had taken their lives, odds are he had taken the money they'd stolen as well. That also explained the financial stability.

"I told you it wasn't their fault," I said calmly. "And the person responsible met his due. Remember? I shot him in the face."

"Well," Oswald mused, "it's not just what their friend did to you."

" _Tried_ to do to me," I corrected.

"My dear, the effort exacerbated to hurt you is completely irrelevant to me," said Oswald curtly.

It was a wonder to me how despite being clearly drunk, he was still articulate. That was an attractive trait I hadn't yet discovered, until now. He approached me, pinning me against the counter with his hands on either side of sink. His face was only centimeters from mine, and I smelled the wine on his breath….grapes….hmm….

"They were loose ends," Oswald said, nodding his head as though to make me understand. "Loose ends that needed to be tied off. And that's what I'm going to do…did..."

"With poisoned Cannoli?" I reminded, raising an eyebrow.

"Precisely." Oswald said, winking. "It's quiet, and whatever is left will appear accidental."

"Homicide wouldn't be called for something like that anyway." I returned calmly. "They have better things to worry about—this new drug, Viper, for instance."

Oswald sighed carelessly. He leaned in, kissing my neck. I closed my eyes, feeling the softness of his lips graze the skin just beneath my ear. A pleasurable shiver ran down my back.

"It makes sense, then, why no one put their deaths on the news," said Oswald. He licked my ear.

BANG, BANG.

Oswald scoffed, "Oh for _fuck's_ sake…."

"Easy, tiger…." I cooed, kissing his cheek. "Sit tight."

Oswald grumbled, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

I slipped into the bathroom, taking off my towel. I pulled on a pair of black shorts and a T-shirt, then made my way to the door. I didn't know who it was, never having met the person. He held out a vial of green something; on it read 'breathe me'. I took it and then he was gone like a flash. I closed the door.

It was definitely the Viper drug that had been spreading about.

I opened a window and tossed it out.

 _No thanks_.

I strode into the kitchen.

My plan was to make BLTs (bacon, lettuce, tomato sandwiches) and then have a drink of wine myself. Seeing me, Oswald smiled.

"Who was it?" He asked.

"Honestly, I have _no_ idea."

"You have a prankster in your building," Oswald noted, twirling his finger at the ceiling. "Kids today…."

"It wasn't a kid," I assured.

"A geriatric prankster, then."

"I highly doubt it, Sweetheart."

Oswald giggled, "Can you imagine an elderly man walking around and pushing doorbells?"

I put the bacon on the stove; it simmered. I sliced the tomatoes and lettuce; as I did so, I was very aware of Oswald getting to his feet. The chair scooted into the table. His hands interlaced in my hair, holding strands, entangling them around his fingers. I heard him breathe in deeply, taking in the scent of my freshly shampooed wet locks and vanilla lotion.

His hands moved to my neck, his thumbs massaging into the nape. I lowered my head, only realizing the knot of tension bearing there once he'd started. One hand remained there; his other moved downward between my shoulder blades, following the spine of my back.

"They didn't see it coming," Oswald breathed against my neck.

"Who would suspect cannoli to be dangerous," I muttered.

"It's not the food that people have to worry about." Oswald noted.

_Just the person that gives it to you._

I thought of the unnamed man that had given me Viper tonight. How true, indeed.

I put the lettuce on a plate, the tomatoes on another. I had made five strips of bacon, so far, and had planned to make a total of ten. Another raw slice was placed on the stove, simmering and hissing.

Oswald lowered both his hands to my hips. I heard him groan deep inside his throat. His fingers widened along my hip bone, then moved further downward and between the fabric of my clothes and my skin. His left hand rubbed my inner thigh, the other cupped my bare pussy in his palm.

"Oswald…."

"Mmm-hmm?"

"I'm making dinner."

"I can see that."

"You're distracting me." I mumbled.

"Now you know how I feel anytime you're around me," Oswald whispered. "But such a _beautiful_ distraction you are, Pet."

_Pet._

There was that trigger word. That little name he used to show just what kind of mood he was in.

His index and middle finger touched my clit, circling slowly around the bundle of nerves. I moaned quietly when they left and made a single movement along the slit of my sex.

Oswald grinned broadly when he extracted yet another moan from me.

"Darling…." He said softly.

"Yes?"

"You're burning dinner."

I looked down and saw that the bacon bore a similarity to a block of charcoal. He kissed my cheek, and walked back into the living room. I looked after him incredulously.

I should have been angry for his teasing, but he knew me too well. _I loved_ being teased. I finished making dinner, placing it on the table. Oswald was in the living room, still, watching the news, holding the glass of wine. He looked like a master on a throne.

 _And I'm his pet_.

The thought made my insides melt like butter.

I put together two plates, placing them on the coffee table in front of him. Oswald looked at me wordlessly. I smiled sweetly, taking the empty wine bottle, throwing it in the trash, and returning with a new one. He looked at me curiously, eyes shining with the glimmer of interest. I knelt down on my knees in front of him, between his legs.

"What are you doing?" Oswald questioned.

"What do you _think_ I am doing?"

"I don't know. That's why I asked."

He took another drink from his wine glass.

"Don't worry about it."

"Should I be? Worried, I mean."

"Just watch the news." I said smoothly.

"Sylvia…." Oswald warned as I started loosening his belt.

"All this pet wants to do is please her master," I whispered.

Oswald looked at me, puzzled, but the suggestion made him smile. He watched me undo his belt, then unzip his pants. I groped his cock through his boxers; he watched me like how a hawk watches its prey. His gaze was so intense, I felt my face heat up. I was a little humiliated by my sudden subservience, but god knows I wanted to be the submissive one.

The Mayor on the news was starting to talk about how Gotham would be made proud again….the Arkham project again.

"What a fool," Oswald muttered, glaring daggers at the TV. "He doesn't even know the half of it."

I lowered his boxers, and his cock stood at attention. I took the tip of it in my mouth, tasting the precum. No wonder why he'd stopped teasing me—he had been teasing himself in the process.

"Mmm…."

Hearing his pleasurable sigh, I took more of him in my mouth. I could feel him in my throat as my lips touched the base. I bobbed my head up and down, tasting him. His head fell back on the couch, eyes slowly closing. I heard another moan escape him. When I looked up, I saw him smiling in pure bliss.

"You're really good at this…." Oswald mumbled.

I hummed a response, the vibrations on his cock made him shiver. He leaned forward, placing the glass on the coffee table. Both of his hands were in my hair, entangled as I started sucking on him. In a minute, his hips were thrusting up to my face, holding my head in place as he did so. He thrusted deep into my throat, moaning loudly.

"Wait….Wait…."

Oswald pulled my mouth off him. I looked at him reproachfully.

"Ride me." Oswald panted.

I stripped naked and straddled his lap, holding him in place as I slowly sank on him.

"Mmmm….good girl…." Oswald praised, biting his lower lip as my wet walls clenched desperately around his member.

I held onto shoulders, bouncing slowly on him then once he and I had a rhythm going, it was game on. With every descent I made, his hips thrusted up to meet mine. I could be drunk on having sex with Oswald for the rest of my life and be eternally happy.

His hands grabbed my breasts, squeezing them and pinching my nipples. I moaned in response—pain and pleasure all at once, it was a deadly combination with a satisfying end. I rode him until he was all moans and grunts, flooding my walls with his essence. I kissed his cheek smartly, smiling down at him.

"Dinner's ready whenever you are," I told him, getting to my feet.

He took his plate. I took mine and sat beside him.

"Maybe for dessert, I'll dine between your legs," Oswald said, winking at me.

* * *

**Chapter 9: Tom's Demise**

Oswald Cobblepot, restaurant manager.

I smirked inwardly as I waited tables, knowing that my boyfriend was my new boss. It certainly had an appeal to it. He retained a spot within ear shot, listening to Frankie Carbone and Maroni talk, pretending to be preoccupied with drying drinking glasses when his sole attention was on them. Tending to our many patrons, I was friendlier to them, knowing that I no longer had to receive condescending praise from Lou for a job well done—a teenager could do the same job with fewer compliments.

Oswald's comment to me last night—how I distracted him all the time—buzzed in my brain. When he wasn't watching Maroni and Frankie talk, his eyes were on me. A generous boss that he was, he'd given me a new work outfit since the other one was soaked in Lou's blood.

"Garcon!" Frankie called to me. "Could we get new glasses—we have friends coming over."

I rolled my eyes, tending to his table.

"Garcon means 'boy'." I pointed out.

"You would know, wouldn't you?" chuckled Frankie.

"Drunk already and it's not even five," I muttered, taking the glasses from the table and placing them on a tray.

Frankie glanced pointedly at Maroni, saying, "I'm not drunk."

"Then I can't imagine why you're already being so rude," I returned smartly.

Maroni laughed loudly: "What was I just saying! A right pistol!"

"Yeah," grumbled Frankie, glaring at me.

I moved past them, placing the glasses at the counter. I looked at Oswald, who held out his hand and placed it on my wrist.

"I know you're not in the best mood," Oswald said softly, "but try a little civility."

"Catching flies with honey instead of vinegar, huh?" I returned, quirking an eyebrow. "You can catch just as many with Raid. But fine. I'll be nicer if that's what you want."

"Thank you." Oswald returned, patting my wrist.

"No problem, Boss."

Never failed to see him smirk when I called him 'boss'. I deposited three fresh glasses on Maroni's table, smiling sweetly at Frankie.

"I apologize for my comment earlier," I told him (honey sweet, indeed). "I'm just a little tired, that's all."

"That's what happens when you're screwing your boss all night." Frankie chuckled, smirking at me.

I felt my face flush a deep shade of red. Maroni looked at me, amused.

"If you need anything else, let me know." I said, feeling my jaw clench.

_Don't slap him, don't slap him….no stabbing either._

"I won a piece of Arkham," Maroni continued his earlier conversation, "I strong-armed the Mayor. I made Falcone back down, and you're telling me I can't rob a lousy casino?"

I stepped into the kitchen, and rammed my fist into the wall. I was surprised my bones didn't break, but I was paying for it instantly. Pain shot through my knuckles.

"Whoa, whoa!"

Tom hurried over to me, quickly rubbing the blood from my hands and bandaging it.

"You gotta calm down, Sylvia. Don't let them get to you. Maroni's trouble."

"Maroni, I can stand. It's his fucking lap dog that's pissing me off," I remarked harshly. I glanced through the window, watching Maroni and Frank argue about whether or not attacking Falcone's pride and joy would be worth it.

"You could file sexual harassment," Tom suggested.

I stared at him.

He added weakly, "I'm just saying that you could."

"Tom, it's—first off, filing anything in Gotham is more tasking than the actual insult itself. Second: I'm _not_ doing anything of the sort, especially with one of Maroni's goons. I'm just pissed off is all." I leaned against the counter, holding my hand.

"Paolo talked to me this morning," said Tom calmly.

"Who—oh, the boss, right. About what?"

"He said I shouldn't be asking you to take my shift all the time…. You know, when I have to leave to get my girls."

"Ah."

He said indignantly, "Did you ask him to talk to me?"

"I didn't," I replied honestly. "You ask me all the time to cover you though. No one else."

"I know you'll do it for me."

"Am I the only reliable person you have?" I said logically.

"Maybe not. But so far, you're the only one who doesn't give me any push back."

"Has it occurred to you that I have a life to live too?" I said coolly. "I won't always take your shifts when you ask, Tom. I hope you'll remember that."

"But your life is here…."

"Meaning what exactly?"

Tom frowned uncertainly.

I straightened, taking a step towards him. Under my impenetrable stare, Tom cleared his throat nervously.

"Well…. everyone knows."

"Everyone knows _what_?"

I inhaled deeply, hoping to keep calm but failing miserably. Tom smiled weakly.

"You're fucking the boss," He said, shrugging his shoulders.

"He was my boyfriend before he was my boss, you know." I told him with forced patience.

"So, it's true?" Tom asked, smirking. "You _are_ fucking Penguin."

_The little bitch._

I caught him by the throat and slammed him into the door, my nails digging into his skin. He grabbed my wrist, choking.

"I _hate_ it when you all call him that. He doesn't like to be called that, but you _insist_." I growled, pushing him harder into the door. Tom's fingers were scratching at my wrist, red marks appearing, but I didn't even feel it.

"I hope you know someone else who will cover your shifts," I snarled. I released him and he fell to the floor, grabbing his throat and coughing. "Because I, sure as hell, won't be."

I stepped over him, heading back into the dining room to serve the rest of my fair-weather patrons. Just as I did, Frankie called for me again.

"Bite me!" I snapped.

"Whoa!" Maroni goaded, and Frankie was on his feet in an instant.

"What'd you say to me?" Frankie snarled, walking after me.

I turned on my heel, glaring at him. Just as soon as he was yelling at me, Tom was running out of the kitchen. He looked murderous, red marks lining his throat.

"She just tried to fucking kill me!" Tom shouted, pointing in my direction.

"Oh, piss off," I dismissed. "I hardly touched you."

"You choked me!" Tom said, tears filling his eyes. "You tried to kill me, you fucking cunt!"

Oswald and Maroni glanced at each other. Maroni stood to his feet, clearing his throat. Then he took out his gun and shot Tom, right between the eyes. I jumped with eyes wide at the dead body of Tom. I slowly looked up at Maroni, who pocketed the pistol.

"I hate when people call women that," Maroni muttered, shaking his head. "No respect."

I glanced at Oswald, who looked at me with equal surprise. Thinking it was best I get back to work, I hurried into the kitchen. I had never seen so much death occur in a restaurant!

Maroni and Frankie with company left the diner to attend to business only god-knows-where. I finished serving my last customers (who left me a $20 tip) and I walked to my boss' office. Gently, I knocked.

"Come."

I entered the room, seeing Oswald sitting in the boss chair, eyes looking over the bills, left hand scribbling notes. Seeing me, he dropped his pen, and reclined back in his chair.

"You wanted to talk to me?"

"Close the door." Oswald ordered.

I kicked the bottom of it with my foot and the door closed with a click.

"Mind telling me what just happened?"

"Tom was shot."

"I figured as much," Oswald returned sarcastically, getting to his feet. He rounded the desk, leaning his back against the front of it. "What happened in the _kitchen_?"

"Oh, _that_." I muttered, rolling my eyes.

He watched me with narrowed eyes as I approached him, taking a seat in the chair that was situated in front of his desk.

"He asked me why you talked to him about my taking his shifts and he made it sound like I tattled."

"That's why you attacked him?" Oswald questioned, crossing his arms.

"No—and how dare you automatically assume that I did!"

"I'm sorry. Did you?"

"Of course, I did," I replied sheepishly, crossing one leg over my knee.

Oswald sighed sharply in annoyance.

"What?" I reproached. "It's not like he didn't deserve it!"

"One of my employees gets attacked by another employee; the former gets shot in the head. That doesn't quite track, does it?" Oswald scolded.

I leaned back in my chair, looking him over. Oswald certainly fit into the boss role really well, didn't he?

"He accused me of fucking my boss," I pointed out calmly.

"And _that_ set you off?" Oswald chuckled cynically.

"No. He referred to you as 'Penguin'."

Oswald frowned.

"You don't like the name," I said quietly, getting to my feet. Standing before him. "It disrespects you, does it not?"

"Yes." Oswald answered calmly.

"You're my lover first, and my boss second," I returned, placing my hands on his suit; I straightened his tie, and he looked at me with reproachful eyes. "If anyone disrespects you, they disrespect _me_. And I will not tolerate that. And _that_ is why I attacked the poor bastard."

Oswald looked at me as though he had something else to say, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. His eyelids fluttered, like he was looking at something more than just myself…. like I'd morphed into a goddess of light. He took my hands in his, his eyes casting down at them for a moment. He took a deep breath, and shakily uttered the words I had longed to hear.

"I love you." He blurted.

I smiled when he looked fearful for a brief second, all the insecurities of a man crashing through the surface. I leaned forward, kissing his cheek.

"I know," I told him sweetly. "I love you too."

He let out a huge sigh of relief, and smiled blissfully at me.

* * *

**Chapter 10: Heart to Heart**

Thanks to my smart comment towards Frankie Carbone ("Bite me!"), and my attack on Tom, and the untimely demise that followed on behalf of the one and only Don Salvatore Maroni, I was given a week's 'suspension'. By that meaning, I was getting a paid vacation—Maroni considered it a service to have done away with a sleazy guy like Tom, and both he and Oswald agreed that I needed some RR.

When Oswald awoke to get ready for work, I was up, making breakfast. He and I smiled at each other in acknowledgment before he went into the bathroom; I heard the shower running, and I anticipated the smell of cologne and soap that would follow when he and I embraced.

My cell phone went off as I was setting the table and Oswald, fully dressed in his suit, came into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table as I put his plate in front of him. He grinned like a little boy, happy with the pancakes and sausage and banana on it. I answered the phone, expecting Jim. Instead, I heard a female's voice.

"Sylvia, are you available for a lunch date?" She said.

"Barbara?" I muttered. "Why are you calling from Jim's phone?"

"He had your number on speed dial."

"That doesn't really answer my question," I said, sitting at the table with Oswald, who looked at me curiously. "Are you okay? You sound worried."

"Why would I be worried?"

I shrugged: "You're engaged to a police officer, and a hard-headed one at that, Babs. You have every reason to be. What's up?"

"I need to talk to someone."

"Why not Jim?"

"He's…. Well, we're not really talking at the moment."

 _Ah_ ….

Oswald watched as I engaged my future sister-in-law in what appeared to be a therapeutic session (for her, not for me). While it wasn't the first time Barbara had called me for a girl's chat, it certainly was the first time regarding my own brother. Her voice was soft, like she was making a secret collect call.

"So, can you make it?" Barbara asked hopefully.

"My boss recently gave me some time off," I chuckled, smirking at Oswald who returned the mischievous smile. "I can meet you. Where do you want to go?"

"Could you meet me here?"

"At your place?"

"Yes," said Barbara, her voice becoming a little quieter. "Jim is acting…. odd."

"He's a cop," I said, shrugging again. "Have you considered that…."

"Don't tell me he's doing it to keep me safe."

"Well, what do you want me to say? Dad was the same way, you know. He kept secrets all the time. It's the way of the business; it's a family trait, passed on from generation to generation. And Jim is no different."

" _You_ don't have any secrets," Barbara pointed out.

Oswald finished the sausage and with two full cheeks, he looked at me, reminding me of a chipmunk. I suppressed a laugh. If Barbara only knew my secret.

"I'll come as soon as I'm finished eating."

"Thank you. Thank you very much."

"You're welcome. I'll see you soon."

"Thanks again."

 _Click_.

I placed the phone on the table, sighing. Oswald's look of concern deepened.

"I imagine your afternoon will be busy," Oswald noted.

I shook my head: "Not really. That was Barbara. She wants to talk."

"About what? Whom?"

"Jim, it appears. He's keeping secrets from her."

Oswald said with a hint of sarcasm, "Like what, exactly?"

I nudged his uninjured leg with my foot playfully and he grinned broadly at me. _Shameless_.

"You _know_ what. Jim wouldn't tell her about you. But she suspects something."

Barbara was in trouble, deeply troubled by Jim's profession and secretive personality. I admitted that ever since Oswald's return back to my life, Jim had become more edgy, but otherwise, normal and high-strung. Barbara, of course, didn't know who Oswald Cobblepot was or why or how Jim was tied into it. If Barbara had an inkling of what might have happened or what had changed Jim, it was probably driving her crazy.

I wouldn't be doing her any favors. I sure as hell wouldn't be telling her about Oswald any time soon.

"Everyone else thinks I'm a dead man." Oswald said dismissively, digging into his pancakes. "Maybe she assumes that your brother killed me." He looked up, adding as an afterthought, "Everyone else does."

I smiled saying, "And how would she assume such a thing?"

"You should know better than anyone else the way rumors spread in Gotham. Like a brush fire."

"She lives in a sheltered world. The only time she knows there's bad stuff happening in Gotham is if Jim tells her."

"You don't tell her anything?"

"I don't tell her anything." I reaffirmed. "Barbara's innocent—it's annoying, really. She knows about me as much as Jim has told her."

"Meaning?"

"She thinks I am a trouble maker, but nothing more." I said smoothly, getting up to fetch a second cup of coffee. "Jim hasn't told her the times I've been arrested as a kid, or countless other crimes of which I've been guilty. So, I doubt he'd come out and say he killed a man."

Oswald smiled deviously: "He _didn't_."

"I'm aware," I returned, gesturing to him. "She'd be in complete denial, of course, if she did hear any sort of rumor."

"I can't imagine why. _You_ seem content with murder," Oswald said smoothly, licking his lips.

"In my defense, _I_ never killed anyone."

"You shot one of our hired gentlemen in the face," Oswald reminded, allowing me to recall the man that had also tried to rape me on top of the dead former manager.

"You _know_ that was self-defense."

Oswald slowly got to his feet and slightly staggered towards the counter, setting his plate in the kitchen sink. He took a step towards me, placing one hand on the back of my chair, the other caressed my face.

"And had it not been self-defense, would you have delivered the same sentence?"

"He tried to take what wasn't his," I drawled. "What's _yours_." I grinned darkly, adding, "I'd have killed him either way."

Pleased with my response, he grinned widely, whispering, "In that case, I count myself lucky then."

He lowered his head to mine for a short and tender kiss. He moved to withdraw; I caught his tie, and pulled him back so as to deepen the kiss. First it was quick, sweet pecks, then as he reciprocated with the same heat, the kissing became more passionate. Then I heard him sigh in protest.

"I have to go," Oswald said, withdrawing reluctantly. "Breakfast was delicious, as always."

I beamed with his approval.

"That reminds me," He noted suddenly.

I looked at him curiously as he moved to the refrigerator, opening the door and gesturing to the lower shelf. Inside was a pink box, unlabeled.

"What's that?" I asked.

"If you don't mind," said Oswald smoothly, "I would like you to run something of an errand for me. I was going to do it myself, but seeing as I'm running a little behind…."

I took the box off the shelf, looking inside.

"What's this?"

"Cannoli."

I looked at him questionably.

"It's for the hired help," He explained.

"Isn't that sweet. Why the extended generosity?"

I placed the box on the counter; he closed the refrigerator door. In one smooth movement, his arms wrapped around my waist, his body pinned me between himself and the counter. His lips touched mine briefly in a light kiss.

"There's a price to be paid when one needs to tie up loose ends," said Oswald softly as he cradled my face with one hand, his thumb sliding over my lower lip. "But the cost goes up when someone tries to hurt the people I care about."

"You told me the other night that you'd already killed them."

"Perhaps I'd gotten ahead of myself."

"Or perhaps you had one glass of wine too many?"

"Regardless, here we are."

"So, by that, I am guessing that there's more than just ricotta cheese in those pastries?" I presumed quietly.

Oswald smiled deviously before pressing his lips against mine, tender at first then when I returned it, it became passionate as the last.

"He didn't really hurt me, you know."

Oswald nipped my bottom lip, saying, "Like you said, Pet. He tried to take what isn't his. I won't have anyone stealing what is mine."

I pushed my hips against his, smirking when I heard him sigh longingly.

"Oswald, your jealousy is showing."

He looked at me reproachfully.

"But I _like_ it." I whispered, grinning darkly. I pushed myself against him once more, and he did the same to me, extracting a wanton keen from my lips.

We kissed a while longer.

"I thought you said you're running late." I mumbled.

"I am."

"Then you best get a move on, yeah?"

He pulled away from me half-heartedly.

"You don't mind taking it to them, do you?" Oswald asked.

"I'll take care of it." I said, smirking as I put the top on the box. "It'll be my pleasure."

"Be pleasant."

"Don't worry, I've got this. You have _nothing_ to worry about."

"I appreciate the favor."

I walked with him to the door, smiling when he kissed me on the cheek.

"Don't even mention it. I'd do anything for you, Oz. Tell Maroni I said 'hi', will you? Assuming, of course, that he lets you get a word in."

"He wants the casino badly enough—he'll listen to me."

Oswald buttoned his jacket, smoothing out the little wrinkles that had tried to envelope in the fine fabric during our brief making out.

"You sound pretty certain about that," I noted as he buttoned his cuff links. "Confidence looks good on you, Boss."

Oswald smirked at me. He just _loved_ hearing me call him that.

"Let me know when you get to her apartment," He said calmly, although I could detect that familiar protective tone like I normally heard in Jim's voice.

"Call or text?"

"Whichever," Oswald said, shrugging a shoulder.

"Oooh, I get choices—you spoil me." I teased.

"You make it too easy."

He and I kissed one more time.

"I love you," Oswald whispered.

"Love you too, Oswald."

He smiled happily and then left for work.

I headed over to Barbara and Jim's apartment, parking the car on the curb. As I headed up the elevator (because I certainly was not going to be using the stairs), I pulled out my phone and hit number 1 on the speed dial.

When the other line picked up, I said calmly, "I'm here."

"Let me know when you leave," Oswald said firmly.

In the background, I could hear Maroni's familiar Italian accent coming out, more talk about the casino. The elevator door opened and I made my way towards the apartment.

"I will." I promised.

"Good. I love you."

"And I, you."

He and I hung up at the same time. Then I knocked on Barbara's door. She opened it almost immediately, startling me in the process. Her eyes were red, looking as though she had been crying or maybe she hadn't been sleeping either—or both. But she smiled briefly when she saw it was I who had knocked. Eagerly, she stepped to the side and allowed my entry.

"You got here a little faster than I thought you would," She greeted quickly.

I turned to her as she closed the door: "Well, I figured you needed the company. You sounded worried on the phone."

Barbara's smile disappeared.

"Let's sit, shall we?" She offered, gesturing to the kitchen.

I took a seat at the table while she poured two glasses of wine. I doubted she needed the alcohol at this moment but I didn't protest.

She hesitated for a brief second: "You like red wine, don't you?"

I nodded.

"I prefer chardonnay, but I'm afraid we're out. I normally get it from the store down the street, it's only a few blocks from here, actually." Barbara said shakily. "Sometimes I go out of my way, outside of Gotham. There's a winery…."

"Barbara."

She looked at me, startled.

"You're rambling," I pointed out.

Barbara smiled weakly, saying, "I'm sorry."

She interlaced her fingers together to hide the fact that her hands were trembling, placing them on the table in front of her. Her eyes were cast downward as though she was shifting through the numerous files of countless dilemmas in her head and then she slowly looked at me, realizing for a moment that I'd been sitting in front of her the entire time.

When I first met Barbara Kean, I thought she was a snob. Her hair was always finely brushed, not a lock out of place. She had these startling blue eyes that could make a man or woman's heart stop beating and then electrically shock right back to its lively pulse. Her voice was always hallowed, always calm and proper. I'd never met her parents—I doubted I would like them.

But seeing her now, Barbara had changed a little. Worry lines were a constant on her forehead, and her eyes were dull.

"You wanted to talk about Jim." I recalled. "You said he was acting odd, keeping secrets from you."

She nodded.

"What do you think he's keeping from you?" I asked curiously. I took the wine and sipped it a minute, placing it back.

"MCU came by the house," Barbara said quietly, looking at me strangely.

I rolled my eyes: "Major Crimes?"

"Yes," said Barbara. She hesitated again: "Well…. not on business, exactly."

"What does that mean?"

"Do you know Montoya?"

I nodded, "I'm familiar with the name, but I have never met her personally."

Barbara leaned forward, her eyes darkening.

"She came by the apartment and told me that Jim murdered someone."

"Mario Pepper's death was a frame job, but he never killed him."

"Not him, someone _else_ ," Barbara said, shaking her head. "Someone I don't know, someone that Jim won't talk to me about."

"Who does Montoya think Jim killed _this_ time?" I questioned, unable to hide the cynicism in my tone.

"A man by the name of Oswald Cobblepot. She asked me to ask Jim about him, but when I did, he couldn't tell me anything," said Barbara softly. She looked at me. "Do you know a man by that name?"

"Can't say I do," I lied. "But you know…if Jim can't tell you anything, he's likely trying to protect you—don't give me that look—you know it's true. In your heart, you do. And what does Montoya actually know, huh? Does she have proof?"

"No."

"Does she have witnesses?"

"I don't know—she didn't tell me anything."

"Then you're worried about nothing, aren't you?"

Barbara stood up suddenly, and started pacing the kitchen. She leaned against the table, a hand shuffling roughly through her hair as she looked at me with frustration.

"You know Jim better than anyone else," said Barbara, pointing at the door, referring to the man in question. "If you knew something that I didn't—concerning a murder—you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

"Barbara..."

" _Wouldn't you_!"

I leaned back in my chair, pushing the wine away. Then she sighed, closing her eyes in a prayer for patience before smiling sadly at me.

"I'm sorry for snapping…" She whispered. "I'm just _so_ worried about him, you know. I love him, more than anything in the world, and I feel like he's keeping secrets from me. I don't like it. How do you deal with it?"

"I don't deal with it—I accept it for what it is, and I move on," I answered honestly. "Jim has always had secrets. He had them when he was in the Army, and it has been no different since he became a cop. Being a soldier, he couldn't tell us everything he knew because he was sworn to secrecy, and because he was protecting dad and me. Being a cop demands that kind of mystery. That's why most of the cops in the joint are either single, divorced, or cheating on their spouses. But Jim loves you, and he does whatever he can to keep you safe."

Barbara sat down. Silence passed between us for a moment.

"He talks about your past," said Barbara quietly. "He says you've been in trouble a few times."

"Well, this isn't our first conversation," I reminded. "I've told you a few of them myself."

"Yeah—you mentioned you took mail from mail boxes and you've taken a pack of cigarettes from a convenient store, but you never mentioned that you used to…."

"To what?"

"Jim says you've mugged people," said Barbara, glancing at me skeptically. "And you've robbed a couple banks, or tried to as a kid. But…that's not true is it?"

"Well, if Jim says it happened, I guess you have no other choice than to believe him, huh?"

"I thought you said you didn't keep any secrets."

"I never said that," I countered. "I have a lot of secrets. Too many. Not everything I say or do gets passed onto you. In that aspect, Jim and I are very much alike."

"So, you don't know what he's hiding either?"

"Is that the reason you asked me to come?"

Barbara frowned.

Apparently, it was.

I drank the rest of the sour wine, holding back a horrid grimace. She watched me resentfully.

"Montoya said he killed Oswald Cobblepot," Barbara said, disbelieving her own words. "Said he did it on the orders of Carmine Falcone. Would that sound like something Jim would do?"

"I can see you're trying to extract information from me, and that's all fine and dandy," I said sarcastically, "but let me ask you something first. Why would Montoya, high-standing officer of Major Crimes Unit, come to the fiancée of her suspect with these accusations without evidence or testimony?"

Barbara pressed her lips together. Guilty.

"We're friends," She said quickly.

"Friends? Really…." I smiled knowingly. "Is that all?"

"Fine. We were more than that—but that doesn't take away from what she told me. What we had, it is in the past. Where it will stay, mind you," Barbara said curtly. "Does that sound like something Jim would do, though?"

"You're engaged to the man. Shouldn't you know the answer to that? That Montoya woman really put her hooks into you, didn't she?"

"Don't patronize me!" Barbara snapped. "I'm asking you because you _know_ Jim. You grew up with him."

"I'm aware."

"So, you'd know what he's capable of—more than anyone else, right?"

I nodded.

"Do you think he did it?"

Her voice was pleading, begging for me to tell her otherwise. She didn't want the truth at all; she wanted someone to tell her that Jim was incapable of killing a man in cold blood. By this time, we were standing close, with our voices rising to the ceiling.

"Truth be told, Bee, I believe Jim is capable of killing someone. He's got the training under his belt, and he'll do it to protect people he loves, purely out of self-defense. When I first heard the rumor, I'll admit that I thought he did." I told her truthfully. Barbara let out a dry sob. "But, _but…_." I took her hands in mine. "I know for a fact that he didn't kill anyone."

"How do you know?" Barbara said, her voice barely over a whisper.

"Like you said—I know Jim," I returned gently. "And Jim stands on a moral ground thicker than a rainforest."

Barbara gripped my hands hard, looking not just into my eyes, but through them. She was trying to see if I was lying to comfort her, but what I said was true, forgiving the fact that my proof lived inside my apartment. Full of relief, for now, Barbara let out a long, deep sigh and hugged me close to her.

"Thank you," She said quietly. "But…."

"But?"

"I need to hear it from him. I just do."

"Good luck with that endeavor," I muttered as she withdrew. "You're trying to open a safe that's been locked for eons—he's a stubborn jackass."

Barbara laughed shakily, smiling at me.

"I know. But thanks for coming over. I just needed to talk to someone who knew him, you know? Gather some insight."

"So, what will you ask him when the time presents itself?" I asked, sitting and leaning back in the same chair.

"I want half of what he has to carry," Barbara stated, business-like. "He carries my half easily."

"What _is_ your half?"

Barbara gave me a look that read 'don't ask', but it was obviously unreasonable since I'd already done so. I dismissed the question carelessly.

"How's the art gallery?" I asked conversationally. "Any new pieces of interest?"

"Not really. Most of it is drab, I have to admit."

"No buyers?"

"All are buyers," said Barbara, taking the first sip of her wine. She made the same grimacing expression, coughing shortly after. "Ah! This is terrible!"

I gestured to my empty glass saying, "But drinkable."

She stood and threw the rest of it down the kitchen sink, looking at me humorously.

"Have you eaten lunch yet?" She asked.

"No."

"Do you want to eat lunch here?"

I nodded, saying, "I have the time."

Barbara smiled happily.

* * *

**Chapter 11: When the Pet Loves the Boss**

The hired help had taken an apartment within Gotham's city limits. I'd walked up the stairs, the box of pastries in my hand, and knocked on the door. There was a fumbling around and I could hear the men inside talking harshly in whispers. The youthful one of the three answered the door, gun pointed in my face.

Seeing me, he quickly apologized.

"I thought you were someone else!" He let out a breathy laugh, and allowed me inside.

I looked around the apartment—nothing much to look at. The walls were white, and dull, and the furniture (if one called it that) was just a couple of boxes and a pail bucket turned upside down, suitable for another chair. I closed the door behind me as the youthful one took his seat, all three of them watching me expectantly.

"We were expecting the other guy," The oldest gentleman of the bunch said politely, gesturing to my presence. "Thought he'd come by."

"He was running late for work," I returned calmly.

"Bet he's enjoying that new position, eh?" chuckled the youthful one.

"Speaking of which," I made a quick segue, placing the box on my lap, "I must commend you for killing the manager."

"Yeah, no one saw it coming," The oldest said, laughing lowly.

The middle-aged one had remained quiet, but now spoke: "We're sorry about what happened with Ron."

"With whom?" I asked.

"The one that…."

He meant the man that had tried raping me. Apparently, word had gone out to them—his body had appeared in the papers anyway, what was left of it after Maroni finished with him.

"You have to understand," said the youthful one. "We didn't know he was going to do anything like that, honest. We'd have pulled him away if we'd been there, you know. We don't…."

"Don't worry about it," I insisted.

"Still though—raping a woman ain't good news. On either end. But the people bought the robbery, right?"

"Yes."

"So why did he send you?" asked the eldest, looking at me curiously. "Ain't you his girlfriend, or something?"

"I am," I replied.

"You work for him too, though?"

"I do."

"That's kinda hot," said the eldest, smirking at me. "Boss and employee thing always can make a man feel good. You call him 'boss' in bed?"

"That's an inappropriate thing to ask," I stated coolly.

The eldest shrugged, saying, "Call him 'boss' when it's all business, then his name when it's all casual. Sounds like a good thing going, you know."

Well, the guy wasn't wrong.

The youthful one looked at the box in my hands.

"What's that?" He asked.

"Look for yourself," I offered, handing the box to them.

They peered inside, and they were all happy.

"Boss wanted to commemorate your success, so he made it for you all. He was very pleased with the aftermath. Very convincing, he said."

"Oh yeah! These are amazing!"

All three started digging in like their lives depended on it. I watched them eat like little piggies. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket and excused myself to answer.

"Hello?"

_"Hello there."_

I startled, hearing Maroni's voice.

"Good Afternoon, Miss Gordon," Maroni said slyly.

"Afternoon yourself, Don Maroni," I answered dully.

"I'm sure you're wondering why it was me who answered the phone instead of your boss, right? Well—in a way, I guess I'm _also_ your boss, but let's not dwell on technicalities, huh?"

I glanced at the three goons eating, then side-stepped further away.

"Is Paolo okay?" I asked.

"We're far beyond that, Miss Gordon. Might as well call him by his real name."

 _Ah, shit_.

"I'd like you to be on your way," said Maroni darkly. "Your vacation will have to be cut short. I'd like you to come down to the restaurant so we can have a little talk."

"Is Oswald okay?" I asked.

"That'll depend strictly on your timeliness. And don't bother going to the cops—your brother is already on his way with an associate of mine. And if you choose not to come, I can have one of my friends go to your apartment…."

"That's not necessary. I'll come." I said quickly.

"Good girl. I'll see you then."

 _Click_.

Then I realized that the chatter and yum sounds had died away. I walked back into what could be called the living room, finding the three hired employees on the ground moaning quietly as their mouths filled with foam and their eyes widened with shock and fear. Then their moans died away, just like the rest of them.

Amused, I said aloud, "He must have gone heavy on the poison, didn't he?"

I stepped over them, lifting the bag of money that they'd taken from Maroni over my shoulder and headed down in the elevator, placing the same bag in the trunk. I ran the red lights and stop signs to get to the restaurant. When I pulled up, a large brusque of a man was waiting for me with a gun in his hand.

"Sylvia Gordon."

"Don't play dumb, Gabe," I scolded. "You know who I am."

"Come with me." He muttered. As he led me into the restaurant, he also added, "You smell nice."

"Thanks," I said with a smile.

I saw Oswald sitting next to Maroni, beaten up and bleeding. Across from him was Jim Gordon, who looked at me pointedly as I took the last empty seat beside him.

"Why is _she_ here?" Jim questioned coldly, glancing at me then at Maroni.

"I like her company," lied Maroni, smirking at me. "Now…. here's the deal. Our friend here just told me a fascinating story, such a great story I'd never heard before—It's hard to believe it's true."

"It's true, I swear!" Oswald interjected.

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" Maroni shouted furiously, and he held a lobster claw to his face.

I didn't know what I was ready to do, but I began to rise to my feet, but Jim grabbed my shoulder and pushed me back down.

"You talk one more time, I'll jam this thing down your throat!" Maroni threatened Oswald. He turned to me. "And you—you stay seated, you hear me!"

Maroni shook his head, looking at Jim.

"She's a pistol," said Maroni with a dark chuckle, glancing in my direction. "I can definitely tell you two are related. So, as I was saying...I try to be polite, but I don't like repeating myself. Here's how it's going to work…."

"Mr. Maroni, I don't know you—" Jim began.

Maroni interrupted him, temper flaring: "No, no, no. I'm talking right now. You'll have your chance to speak!"

Jim silenced, looking at me. What a great reunion this was, between my boyfriend and my brother. It was like every time the three of us met, one of us was eyes-deep in shit.

"Okay," said Maroni. "Now…. I want you to tell me the same story that Penguin told me."

"What story is that?" Jim questioned, playing dumb.

"Oh, you better know what story," threatened Maroni softly. "Because if you tell me the same story he told me, then I can believe it. Then I am happy. But if you tell me a different story—oh mama—then one of yous is lying. I won't know which, so then both of you are dead. And she…." He nodded his head to the side in my direction, "Will die too. On merit."

I'd never felt my heart beat so fast.

Jim looked at me in such a way that begged me to answer why I was still with Oswald, why I insisted on getting into trouble after all these years. But my life was on the line, all of our lives were.

"Understand?" Maroni questioned.

"Yes. I do." Jim returned.

"Good. So, Jim…. tell me a story."

He took a moment then he spoke.

"Someone murdered Thomas and Martha Wayne. My partner and I caught the case—"

Oswald said quickly, "We didn't even know each other!"

"WHAT DID I JUST SAY!" Maroni bellowed. "Take him"—Frankie and two others grabbed Oswald, and I made to get out of my seat— "To the slicer and if I don't like what I hear, slice his face! You! Hold her down!"

Gabe came up behind me, grabbed my shoulders and forced me down.

"I don't know what you see in that guy," Maroni said to me. "You stay seated, little girl. You hear me?"

"I swear to god—" I began.

"Do you _hear_ me!" Maroni snapped.

I looked up at Gabe, who wearily kept his hands on me while Jim looked at me carefully. I heard the slicer turn on.

"If you don't, I'll end the conversation here," Maroni warned. "And I will have him killed _right_ now. Understand, Sylvia? Look at me. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"Good." Maroni said, leaning back. He gestured to Gabe and I felt his hands leave me. "I'm sorry, Jim. Please. Go on."

Jim continued monotonously.

"I was a pawn, in a conspiracy between Falcone, the Mayor, and the GCPD to frame Mario Pepper for the Wayne Murders, with the help of Fish Mooney, Mr. Cobblepot's employer at the time. Mr. Cobblepot then told the whole story to the MCU. To ensure that I would not betray the conspiracy, Mr. Falcone ordered for me to kill Mr. Cobblepot. I didn't do it. I let him live. And here we are."

"Falcone, Mooney, MCU—none of them know he's alive?" Maroni questioned slowly.

"If they did, I wouldn't be alive right now," said Jim truthfully.

"And her?" said Maroni, gesturing to me.

"She knew." Jim admitted, glancing at me. "She hasn't told anyone."

"Clearly not," said Maroni, smirking. He turned his attention to me: "You must live an interesting life, Sylvia—dating the Penguin and having Gordon for a brother."

"It certainly keeps me on my toes," I grumbled, glaring at Gabe who was still enforcing my restraint.

Maroni stood to his feet: "FRANKIE! Bring the Penguin back out here! The little punk is telling the truth!"

The slicer was turned off, and I let out a sigh of relief. Jim looked at me and I returned the glance. As Frankie Carbone and another unnamed gentleman brought Oswald back to the table, I quickly stood. Gabe made a point to put his hands on my shoulders to keep me on my chair, but Maroni waved his hand calling off the guard dog.

"Thank you, Jim. Good story. Told well. Lot of guys in your position, they freak out." Maroni told Jim, who stood slowly to his feet at this point.

Maroni put his arms around Oswald, saying, "Come here, you rat, you snitch, you glorious turncoat, I love you!" He grinned widely at Frankie, adding, "Smile, Frankie. We just got a new weapon against Falcone—it's Christmas."

"Happy Holidays," Jim grumbled. "Can I go now?"

"Oh, yeah, Jim. You can go. But…." Maroni said, "let's just keep this hush-hush between us friends, huh? And if I need you again, I'll call you."

Jim looked at him as though he didn't want to see Maroni's face ever again. Then Jim placed his hand on my wrist and pulled me to the side, out of ear shot from the others. I hesitated, not wanting to be away from Oswald after what just happened but Jim insisted, so I relented.

"I know, I know," I said quickly.

"You don't know what I'm about to say," Jim hissed.

"I kind of do. You're going to scold me for being with Oswald and getting you into this mess, but I should remind you that you'd be in this mess with or without my involvement."

Jim let out a scathing noise, saying, "It's only going to get messy."

"With you, most things do." I pointed out. "Me, I'm used to this. It's like my every day routine—I get caught up in this kind of thing every week. So, don't worry about me."

Jim rolled his eyes.

"Besides," I added, "You should be more concerned with Barbara."

Boom, immediate worry.

"What, why? What happened?"

"Nothing urgent," I answered, placing my hand on his arm. "But she talked to me a little today."

"About?"

"This whole thing," I returned, gesturing to Maroni. "With Oswald. You need to talk to her, Jim."

"I've talked to her already."

"Like _really_ talk to her."

"I'm not going to tell her about Cobblepot," said Jim coarsely. He looked at me, that look in his eye. "Did you tell her anything?"

"Of course not," I hissed. "Why would I? Besides, she's _your_ fiancée. But, look. You have to realize something. She's not just worried about you, she's hurting. She thinks you're keeping secrets from her."

"I am." Jim acknowledged, "But I'm only trying—"

"—To protect her, I got it," I interrupted. "But she clearly doesn't want protection. She wants to know what you know. If that's what she wants, let her have it. Let her know what you know—after she knows what you know, she may not want to know anything else. It's wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, sending a thank-you card or two."

Jim gave me a look, saying, "You have a really crude sense of humor."

I pretended to be hurt then said coyly, "Aw, shucks—but you knew that already. Still, all joking aside: you might want to think it over."

"I will," said Jim. He glanced at his watch. "I have to get back to work."

"Working the Viper case, huh?"

"Yeah."

"How's that going."

"Not well."

"Hopefully, you'll catch the prick. Some guy came by my apartment and handed me some."

"I hope you didn't take it."

"I did, but I threw it out the window."

"You didn't breathe any of it," Jim clarified.

"I'm alive, aren't I?" I pointed out.

He looked at his watch again, then glanced up at Maroni who was talking some details in a hushed tone with Oswald and Frankie.

"I have to go," he said.

"Go," I insisted.

"Be careful, won't you?"

"Always," I answered cheekily.

Jim kissed my forehead then left in a rush.

When Oswald had become restaurant manager, I'd become something of a shift leader. I decided who was doing what, when, where, and I accounted for the bodies in and out of the restaurant. Since I was already at work after everything that had happened, I was going through the calendar, crossing out individuals who were either on vacation or sick, and filling in names of all who would be on the clock tonight. I made a copy for the break room and then placed the original in one of the binders in Oswald's office.

I heard the door open, and I turned to see the owner standing in the doorway. He'd cleaned himself up for the most part, minus the bruises and cuts on his face from where the men had roughed him up. He hobbled inside, and closed the door. I watched him expectantly as he sat in his chair.

"I'm sorry you had to be a part of that," Oswald told me apologetically.

"Don't worry about it." I returned genuinely with a smile. "I liked it."

"You _liked_ it?"

"Well, not the part when they put you on the slicer," I admitted. "I thought it was pretty exciting though."

Oswald tilted his head to the side, saying, "You're an odd woman, you know that?"

I shrugged, unashamed.

"So, what's the plan now?" I asked, sitting on the edge of his desk.

"As a test of trust," said Oswald calmly, "I will be heading out with Don Maroni to the casino. I've spoken to the janitor who works in the boiler room; he's agreed to let his men inside to rob the place. After that, I'll be in his inner circle."

I placed the binder behind me, looking at Oswald closely.

"Perhaps I should go."

"With me?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "To the casino. I can make sure the janitor does what he's supposed to do."

"You're not going anywhere," said Oswald firmly. "You're going to be here."

"You'll put everything to chance with a custodian?"

"I have persuaded him to be reliable."

"But he's a janitor…."

"Doesn't matter. He'll do what he's told."

"Oswald…."

He gave me a stern look, and I frowned.

"You have Maroni breathing down on your neck right now, Oz. Yet you will place your confidence in a man you've only spoken to twice, relying on this guy to get Maroni's men in and out of Falcone's Casino all in one piece?"

Oswald watched me move off the desk and I knelt down between his legs, my hands on his knees. He smiled down at me.

"Let _me_ do it," I insisted. "I'll meet the janitor in the boiler room. That way, if something happens, I'll be there to make sure it goes smoothly."

"So eager," Oswald mused, placing his hand on my head. "But I can't have you go."

"Why the hell not?"

"It'll be dangerous."

"Fuck danger," I said wistfully. "Didn't I just tell you I like it. You have a lot riding on this, Boss."

"Keep talking like that, and I'll have something for _you_ to ride." Oswald said darkly.

I raised my eyebrows in surprise, then smiled. My eagerness to carry out his plan had apparently caused him some pleasurable discomfort. His semi-erection was trying to push through his custom-fit pants. My kneeling between his legs probably helped it along too.

"I told you," I whispered. "You're my lover first, and my boss second. You can't argue that I'm great at being a lover. But I can be so much more for you at your work, if you'd allow me to be."

"I don't want you to get hurt," Oswald implored.

"I've been hurt before," I hushed.

Oswald glanced at the fading scar on my collar bone from where Fish had marked me.

"And I took the pain easily. I'd be a great asset to you. Just as you let me love you, let me _work_ foryou."

"What do you get out of it, me telling you what to do?"

"Maybe it's my thing," I said mischievously. "Maybe I like being told what to do. Inside of me is a little pet, who only longs to please her boss, to ensure that he succeeds in all things." I placed my chin on his knee. "So, what do you say?"

Oswald played with my locks, smiling at me.

"Fine." He said quietly. "But, not this time around."

" _Fuck_. Why **not**?" I pouted.

"Because I said so."

I stood to my feet, ready to leave, but he caught my wrist and pulled me back. I looked at him reproachfully.

"How did the visit go with our 'friends'?" Oswald asked—his voice was business-like, and it did things to me.

"They liked the Cannoli," I answered with a smile.

"Were you pleasant?"

"Indeed, I was, boss."

Oswald lifted my hand to his lips and kissed the inside of my wrist.

"Good girl." He commended.

I beamed, "Thank you, sir."

With that said, I left the office, grinning ear-to-ear.

* * *

**Chapter 12: Jim Is Almost Arrested**

It wasn't the tenth time I had received a call from Gertrud Kapelput. It was more or less the thirtieth one in a week.

"You need to give him back," Gertrud said harshly. "He hasn't called his mother for so long—he's been tangled up with you!"

"Hello to you too, Mrs. Kapelput," I answered.

Dial tone afterwards.

Forgetting I'd left the door unlocked, I was startled when it opened. Luckily, it was Oswald who came in to the living room, smiling at me. Honestly, I could breathe a sigh of relief now that he was back and in one piece.

"I'm assuming it went well since you're alive," I referred to the robbery at the casino, placing my phone on the table.

"Perfectly."

Well, that's nice."

Oswald raised an eyebrow at my tone.

"Is everything alright?"

"You _need_ to go see your mom."

"Did she call you again?"

"She called me thirty-something times this week alone. And it's not like it's a conversation! She'll call, tell me to give you back to her, then hang up. One time, she called me a 'hussy'."

"Someone's in a bad mood," Oswald teased.

"I'm fine. I just have a headache," I told him quietly as I lied down on the couch.

I heard him move to the bathroom, the door closing. The shower turning on. The glass of wine I had earlier was starting to churn in my belly, but not in the most unpleasant way. The thought of Oswald in the shower, water running through his hair and down his body… _what a great image_.

I turned on the television, switching to the news.

There was talk about some goat killing rich kids. Only in Gotham.

I smelled cologne and soap, suddenly. The explanation being that Oswald, dressed in a robe, had come into the living room; I moved so he could sit down and then I placed my head on his lap. His hands moved throughout my hair, massaging my scalp; I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation.

"I'll see Mother tomorrow," Oswald said softly.

"Should I come?"

"Do you want to?"

I shrugged: "She probably won't like it. It doesn't really seem like she likes me that much."

"She likes you," Oswald protested.

I turned on my back, looking up at him: "I have a hard time believing that when she's calling me a slut over the phone."

"She just has to get used to you. That's all. For the longest time, it has always been just the two of us," Oswald reasoned. "The last thing she wants is for me to leave."

"Well, Oz. What will she do if she finds out you want to marry me one day?"

He said nothing, which made all my insecurities dredge up towards the surface. And not being one to hold my emotions in or my thoughts for too long, I sat up. Oswald peered at me with a disarmed expression.

"You still _want_ that, don't you?" I asked uncertainly.

"Of course, I do."

"Then shouldn't you tell Gertrud that I am more than just a friend of yours?"

"I suppose you're right," Oswald muttered.

I kissed his cheek supportively: "If it'll cause problems, you can let it be."

"Why would it cause a problem?"

"You just look nervous about telling her that I'm the love of your life."

"I'm not nervous."

"You look a _little_ nervous."

Oswald sighed, sounding annoyed initially by my teasing. I ignored it.

"We'll see what happens," He half-promised.

I said, "Good enough", dropping the conversation then I laid my head back down on his lap, and he continued massaging my head.

I had taken a walk to the pier, just to enjoy the great Gotham air. The birds were flying above, seagulls calling out to each other under the gray clouds. Beneath my feet, the ocean waves crashed against the deck as a storm was setting in. I wore blue jeans and a long-sleeve black shirt, and had sacrificed my comfort for the chill when I chose not to wear a jacket.

Breathing in the air, I could smell salt from the ocean, and…. I think it might have been a dead dog. I wasn't sure. I heard a car pull up, the engine dying. I slowly turned to see that my newfound company were two people, a male and female, both wearing jump suits. They appeared disgruntled as they both approached me.

"Sylvia Gordon," The woman spoke my name.

"In the flesh," I responded, holding my arms out dramatically. "Now, who the fuck are you?"

"You and Detective Gordon seem to have the same mannerism," muttered her male counterpart.

I frowned.

"I'm Detective Renee Montoya of Major Crimes; this is my partner." She said, gesturing to the male. "We need to speak to you."

"You're investigating the death of Oswald Cobblepot and trying to find proof in order to bring my brother into custody," I stated coldly.

"So, you know?" Montoya questioned. "How."

The moment I said Barbara's name, Montoya mentally slapped herself. That didn't stop her from pursuing the matter at hand.

"He was your boyfriend, wasn't he? Oswald Cobblepot."

"Yeah."

"And you don't want the man responsible brought to justice?"

"Jim didn't kill him."

"How do you know that?" Montoya interrogated.

"How do _you_?" I countered harshly.

Montoya frowned, saying, "Cobblepot worked for Fish Mooney. He came to us—"

"—I know what he did. But you want me to help you find proof for something that never happened. That's a wild goose chase, and I'm not into geese."

Montoya stepped towards me with her partner: "What do you know, Miss Gordon?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"You want justice for your boyfriend—we want the same thing."

"Is that all you want?" I questioned smoothly. "Maybe you want to get rid of Jim so Barbara will run to you for comfort, hmm?"

Montoya's frown deepened. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course, you don't," I returned slyly, smirking at her. "But I'm sure Barbara does…. Doesn't she?"

Montoya glared at me. She tried pretending she still didn't know what I was implying. In fact, she seemed intent on ignoring the implication alone: "You know Gordon is guilty, don't you?"

"I'm certain that _you_ think he is."

"You're covering for him."

"Maybe I am," I replied sarcastically. "More importantly, what _if_ I am? What proof do you have?"

"You're mixed into this somehow," Montoya's partner said unhappily. "Aren't you?"

Montoya stepped closer to me, just an inch from my face. She looked into my eyes, and I smiled back at her, although it didn't reach my eyes.

"All we are trying to do is help you, Sylvia. We want justice, just like you. Gordon killed your boyfriend and he's walking around like nothing is wrong. Doesn't that make you angry?" Montoya asked.

I tilted my head to the side: "You really don't know anything, do you?"

The two of them seemed to realize they wouldn't be getting anything out of me and they got back in their car and drove off. So much for getting some air.

During the next few days, Oswald was visiting with his mother; he packed a suitcase and was staying with her for a couple of weeks, which gave me plenty of alone time. And after what happened with Montoya, I tried keeping a close eye on any buzz from the news channel.

But nothing came on that concerned my brother or his friends.

On the news, I heard that the Goat had been caught; he'd tried nabbing a rich girl and was saved by Harvey Bullock and Jim, so I made my way to the police station to congratulate my brother and Harvey on a job well done. I spoke with the Desk Sergeant, who greeted me happily; he directed me to the captain's office.

"So, tell me again how you drove to the nice part of town and _shot_ the lady doctor?" Captain Essen said incredulously to Harvey Bullock.

I stopped at the doorway, knocking on the frame.

Harvey turned to me, and smiled widely.

"Sylvia!" Essen greeted, and she hugged me. "It's been so long! You look pretty as ever."

"Thanks." I blushed. "I just came to congratulate you, Harvey."

"Oh, so it's _Harvey_ now," He chuckled, grinning with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "No longer 'Bullock'." (He nudged Essen.) "I'm making my way up the ranks with her."

"Not really, Bullock."

Harvey shrugged, "Ah well—easy come, easy go."

"So does the goat get taken to the slaughter or does he get set free in a few years?" I asked no one in particular.

Harvey gave me a look. He was about to respond, but he was interrupted.

" _We're on the same side, don't you understand!_ "

"Jim?" I muttered, looking around and following Harvey and Essen out of the office.

"We're fighting the same war, and damn it! I'm getting somewhere!"

We were down the stairs and standing before my handcuffed brother before I knew it.

"Getting into a six-by-eight pen in Blackgate." Montoya smarted off.

"What is this!" Essen ordered, getting into the middle of it.

"MCU's taking Detective James Gordon into custody," Montoya said firmly, looking between Essen, Harvey, and myself.

 _Ah **hell**_ no.

I stepped aside and pulled out my phone, watching the scene unfold before me.

"Sylvia?" Oswald's voice answered the phone.

"Baby, you need to get down here."

"Where?"

"GCPD station," I hissed. "MCU brought Jim here—they're arresting him."

"For what?"

"What do you think!"

"Sylvia, I'm with my mother—"

"Oswald! They're arresting my brother, now if you can't get away from your mom for ten fucking minutes, they're going to put him away for a crime he didn't commit!" I snapped (luckily my voice was drowned out from MCU and Essen arguing).

Oswald paused before he said, "I'm on my way."

"Be quick."

"I will."

I hung up the phone.

 _Buy some time_. I moved back into the crowd.

"He murdered Oswald Cobblepot and dumped him in the river—"

"That's a damn lie!" Harvey shouted.

"It is a lie!" Jim agreed.

Montoya gestured to me: "She knows he did it!"

"The fuck I do!" I snapped furiously. "When you talked to me, I told you nothing!"

"You said you were covering for him," Montoya accused.

"You have no proof," I argued, stepping towards her. "And you have—"

"We have a witness—"

"—A homeless person!"

"He had binoculars!"

"I didn't shoot Oswald Cobblepot, I lied," Jim urged, looking desperately at Harvey. "It was a lie! I didn't shoot him, Bullock!"

"I know you didn't shoot him. I know."

"No, _really_ ," Jim emphasized.

In retrospect, if it weren't for the fact that my brother was arrested and I was pissed off, I thought this whole thing might have been funny.

"Harvey Bullock, you're under arrest," Montoya stated.

"FOR WHAT!" Harvey snapped.

"An accomplice to murder. Our witness places you at the scene."

Essen wasn't having it.

"You think you can walk in here and take my people like that?" She demanded.

"We're not here to take down the GCPD—we just want these two." Montoya snapped.

"Well, they're GCPD so MCU has a problem!"

"Yeah you got a problem!" Harvey bellowed. "YOU GOT A REAL PROBLEM!"

The door opened. All of us turned. Oswald stood there, in the flesh….in a nice suit. Harvey and Jim looked at each other.

"Hello! I am Oswald Cobblepot." Oswald said, smiling widely.

Harvey barely whispered, "You son-of-a-bitch."

"Harvey…."

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

They tried going at each other; luckily, for once, MCU was keeping them apart. I left them to go to Oswald, who looked at me expectantly. I hugged him.

"Thank you," I breathed, stepping back a little.

"You're welcome," Oswald said genuinely.

MCU had to apologize to Capt. Essen and the other two, but Harvey was already charging after Jim in the locker room.

"I have to go." I told Oswald.

"Where?"

"I have to see Barbara! Falcone, Mooney...they'll be after her first."

"Sylvia—"

He grabbed my arm.

"They'll be after you too," Oswald reminded.

"I can take care of myself," I said quickly, pulling my arm from him carelessly. "Barbara can't. Besides, Falcone still has to live up to his deal he made with you, the one in which I will not be touched. As long as that deal holds, I will be fine."

"That has long since passed," Oswald said darkly.

"I have no choice."

"Sylvia…"

"You know I have to! She's my brother's family," I implored. "If I don't go, they'll find Barbara and use her against Jim, or worse."

Oswald considered the options for a moment before he let go of my arm.

"Go. Be quick."

I nodded. We quickly kissed and then I headed off.

* * *

**Chapter 13: Beaten But Not Broken**

I knocked three times on Barbara's door.

"It's Sylvia! Open the door!"

The door handle jiggled before Barbara appeared behind it. She smiled at me before I pushed her aside, and closed the door, locking it almost immediately.

"What's happening?" Barbara asked quickly.

"Get your shit," I ordered. "Pack what you can in the next five minutes, I'm getting you out of here."

"Sylvia—"

"Don't question me. Just do as I say!"

Barbara looked at me like I had slapped her, but she did as she was told without another word. Her movements were swift, but panicky.

"Where's the spare?"

"Spare what?" Barbara asked distractedly.

"Gun—where's the spare gun?"

"In the b-bedroom, Sylvia, why…."

I left the living room, and charged into the bedroom. Like Jim, he and I had the same thought process. The spare was on his side of the bed, in a box, inside the night stand. I pulled it out, checked if it was loaded (it was), and then headed back into the living room where I saw Barbara pulling a suitcase and parked it beside the couch.

"What's happening?" She asked nervously. "Is Jim—"

"I can't tell you everything right now—"

"—Tell me now!" Barbara shouted fearfully.

I knew her well enough that if I didn't tell her what was happening, her panic would override any type of drive to obey whatever I said.

"Long story, short?" I said bluntly. "Oswald is alive, Jim isn't arrested. Everyone knows Jim didn't do what Falcone told him to do. You're in trouble because of Jim, and I need to get you out of here before they come."

"You're in trouble too, then. You're his sister."

"I'm his sister, but my situation is different."

"How?"

"Barbara, this really isn't the time."

" _How_ is your situation different!"

I frowned, and reluctantly explained: "You asked me if I knew Oswald Cobblepot—I lied and said I didn't."

"You lied to me?" Barbara exclaimed; there was no denying she was upset about that. Just the look of betrayal on her face alone…

"Told you it's a family trait," I reminded, shrugging. "A secret, in a way. But it's more than that. He and I are together; he's my boyfriend. And he made a deal with Falcone that I would not be harmed when all of this stuff with him and Jim happened, but now that's over. _Falcone_ may not hurt me, but that's not to say that Mooney won't—and she is pissed off and we have to get you out **right** now."

"How the hell—" Barbara began angrily.

" _Just stop talking_ , will you? You're pissed—I get it." I glanced at the suitcase then at her. "Is that all you need?"

"Yes."

"Good."

My heart was beating so fast, I thought it would jump out of my chest. The adrenaline made me feel like I could lift twenty cars, and I had to admit that I loved the rush! Barbara had a different reaction to the feeling as she fumbled uncertainly with her fingers and looked fearfully at me.

I glanced in the bullet chamber of the gun one more time, realizing there was only one shot.

"This won't do. Where are the rounds?"

"The what?"

"Rounds, Barbara! The bullet rounds."

"Oh! They're in the back room."

"Where?"

"P-Past the bedroom," Barbara said breathlessly, gesturing in that direction. "Last room on the right."

"Good. I'll be right back—I'm getting those and then we'll head out, okay?" I said, patting her shoulder.

"Okay." She whispered, nodding her head.

I headed down the room as fast as my feet would carry me. I spent about five more minutes looking for the damn things, finding a casing of twelve (what an odd number) and then placed it in the pocket of my jeans. Just as I headed down the hallway, there was another knock on the door.

"Barbara, don't answer—"

Butch Gilzean and three others had come barging into the door the moment Barbara had opened it. They slammed it shut. I pulled out the gun and aimed it at Butch, who appeared surprised, but then amused.

Butch and company took out their own guns.

"Barbara, get behind me." I ordered.

She did it without question, ducking slightly.

"Long time, no see," Butch greeted, grinning widely. "I've not seen _you_ in a while."

"Well, you've seen me. Now get the fuck out."

"You know that's not how this works." Butch said slowly, approaching me with just as much caution.

" _Sylvia_!" Barbara whimpered.

"Don't move, stay behind me." I told her; her hands clutched the hand that currently wasn't holding a gun, aimed at the intruders.

"You can't protect her," Butch warned. "Boss ain't happy with Jim right now, so you know what's going to have to happen."

"You want to wait for him, that's fine," I said calmly, glaring at him and his buddies. "That's _your_ funeral. You don't need Barbara."

"Oh, we do."

The other three guys that had accompanied Butch moved forward towards the woman in question. I heard her whimper in fear behind me. I held out my arm in front of her.

"We can either do this the easy way or the hard way. You can set your gun down and we just have a nice talk," said Butch smoothly, gesticulating to the couch in general "Or, you can try to fight all three of us, end up hurt or worse, and then we still get what we need."

I cocked my gun.

"Okay…. hard way, it is." Butch sighed.

"I dare you to fucking _try_ it!"

The three of them charged at me.

"RUN, BARBARA!"

She didn't get far. She took literally five steps before Butch caught her and threw her back, making her sit on the couch. The other two grabbed me. I managed to shoot one of them in the thigh, and he went down really quick before I was tackled to the ground and they smashed my face into the floor.

"Get off me, you fucking pricks," I spat—I struggled, tossing and turning.

"Keep calm, or we're going to break bones."

"I'll break **your** fucking bones."

Butch leaned over to Barbara, saying cheekily, "She's a feisty one, ain't she?"

The one guy I had shot made a makeshift tourniquet over his thigh and then stood to his feet. He kicked me in the face. I grunted with the impact, tasting blood. I still struggled to get out of their grip. He kicked me in face again, and the other one started kicking my sides.

After a while, I stopped struggling. Mainly because it hurt to breathe.

I glanced up to see that Barbara was crying after seeing me get my ass handed it to me.

"You see," Butch imitated sadness. "We try to give you girls some slack. There are some that take the leeway, like you. But with Sylvia here…. some need a little rewiring. You know?" He looked at me. "Oswald Cobblepot got really lucky when he got you, didn't he! Ha!"

I spit out blood.

"When I get up, I am going to rip out your spine and shove it down your throat." Although it did, admittedly, take me longer to gather my breath.

Butch laughed with the others.

"Why are you here?" Barbara squeaked, staring at the wall.

"Guess there's no harm in saying it," Butch drawled. "Your guy, Jim, upset some powerful people and now that person is really, really mad."

"He didn't kill Cobblepot."

"THERE!" He slapped the couch loudly, making Barbara jump. "You're hip! You're really hip! Man, that Gordon is a lucky son-of-a-gun."

He took a seat beside her.

"Don't you fucking _touch_ her," I threatened.

One of my attackers sighed tiredly before kicking me right in the ovaries. I grunted and decided that fetal position might be more comfortable.

"What are you, like 100 pounds? 110? I bet that's your real hair color too."

Barbara looked at me, eyes pleading.

What could I do though that I hadn't already tried?

"Have you ever been with a criminal?" Butch asked cheekily. "Some women find it a turn-on."

_Click, click._

"Jim!" Barbara gasped.

Everyone turned and I looked up to see my brother coming out from the corner, gun aimed and raised. He took in the situation as a whole, noting how Barbara was stuck on the couch and how I was pretty stationary down on the floor.

"Hey!" Butch greeted happily. "We were just meeting your lovely lady!"

"You're trespassing, get out." Jim said in a low voice.

"Whoa. Slow down, Hoss. You're misreading the situation here. I'm the Shot-Caller here."

"Fucking _shoot_ him," I seethed.

Jim glanced at me briefly then at the man that aimed a gun at him. There was a substantially dangerous glint in his eye, realizing that I was hurt and how the other brutes (besides Butch) were bearing down either over or around me.

"The situation is you've been told to bring me in alive, otherwise I would be dead right now," said Jim sternly, keeping his eyes on all of the intruders separately, yet all at once. "But I will be happy to kill you right here and now."

"This stand-off…" I managed with a wheeze. "This stand-off has been done to is getting old, guys!"

"Don't be such a hard-ass," Butch ignored me, stepping towards Jim. "Come on. You know the rules. You come with us, you take your lumps, nobody gets hurt."

"Tell your friend to drop his gun, or I will blow his brains out." Jim ordered.

"Oh my god, Jim!" Barbara squeaked.

"It's okay, it's under control."

I slowly began to get to my feet. I was kicked down again. The moment the fucker did—

"Touch my sister again," He said dangerously. "And I swear to god, I will shoot you in the goddamn face."

Butch ordered them to stand down.

"Fine, have it your way. But now, after we kill you, we're gonna kill Blondie too. Nice and slow."

He didn't know much about my brother. And what he said basically triggered the old soldier boy inside. Jim shot the guy in the knee, shot my bruiser in the stomach, and knocked Butch out cold. Jim hurried over to me, looking me over.

I had three cracked ribs—I could feel it—and a swollen jaw, which could be healed with ice. My nose was bleeding, but not broken. I had a few cuts on my face, but otherwise, I was peachy. Jim held out his hand and I took it, grunting shortly when he held me up; I held my side.

"I'd ask if you're okay…" Jim began.

"But it'd be a stupid question." I laughed even though it hurt to do that. "I got it."

"You'll need a doctor."

"Fuck that. Get _her_ out of here."

"You'll need to go with her."

"Fuck that too; I'm staying right here."

"They nearly beat you within an inch of your life," Jim protested.

"Yeah, they did, but not because of you. Fish is still butt hurt about Oswald betraying her and me going along with it. That and…. oh!"

Barbara rushed forward and hugged me. Forget the fact that it hurt my ribs, but I still welcomed her form of gratitude. Realization crossed his face.

"You came to protect her," Jim said quietly.

"I tried too, anyway." I muttered, grimacing as I took in a long breath and exhaled just carefully.

"I'm so sorry," Barbara cried, taking my hand. "I didn't know it was them, I swear—I thought…."

"Just get out. Take her, Jim. Go!"

Jim nodded, and he took the suitcase and Barbara's hand, pulling both out the door with him. I leaned against the pillar. Maybe if I just rested, I could find the energy to follow them out. No such thing happened though; I stayed on the floor, holding my side for what felt like hours before I finally decided to stand the fuck up and get out the door.

I got in my car and drove to Gertrude's, knowing Oswald would be there with his mom, plus, it would dangerous going back to my place if Fish wanted to finish me off for good. I was close to fainting, my head felt like it had been run over by a train, and I could barely stand. By the time I'd climbed the stairs, I was leaning more than halfway over, knocking at the door.

Gertrud answered.

And I fainted, falling forward.

* * *

**Chapter 14: Mother Cobblepot**

Why…the hell…did I smell peppermint?

The smell of it hit me and I opened my eyes. My vision was blurry, but once everything came to focus, I realized I was lying on a very comfortable couch with Gertrud's hand in front of my nose. I looked down to see that she was holding some small vial which contained a kind of syrup; whatever it was, its purpose for waking me up had worked.

When my eyes opened, she let out a happy sigh, smiling down at me. She met eyes with someone that sat somewhere out of my peripheral vision; when I craned my head back to look up north, I saw Oswald, sitting in an armchair, fingers gripping the arms. Even when he did, I couldn't completely process the sensation.

"She's awake," Gertrud gushed in her heavy accent; her smile widened.

Oswald knelt down at my head, his hands taking mine. I saw Gertrud glance between us, but she appeared content enough, which surprised me considering the last time I had any interaction with her, she'd implied that I was a whore.

 _Such a nice woman, really_.

"I'll put on some tea; that'll help with the sick feelings," Gertrud offered as she referred to my nausea, getting up with a pep in her step.

"Thanks, Mom." Oswald returned, smiling at her gratefully.

He frowned though when he turned to me.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, eyes filled with worry, and he bit the inside of his cheek, contemplating my current disposition.

I started to sit up, but the pain in my ribs screamed in protest; I lied back down, wincing and holding my side. Doing so, I realized I wasn't wearing the same clothes. I had a rose-patterned robe on; my ribs and stomach were bandaged with a mix of tape and gauze; underneath the gauze, there was a palpable heat that had nothing to do with the room temperature or my warm feelings seeing my Ozzie again. Perhaps his mother had literally slathered my stomach with icy-hot pain relief cream…

"What happened?" I asked.

"You knocked on the door and then you fainted," Oswald answered calmly, holding my hands; his thumb stroked the back of one of them as he continued: "I was hoping you could tell me what happened before that."

I smiled in spite of myself. He sounded so very put-together, but the concern and what was ultimately a bubbling rage for whomever was the reason for my condition just beneath the surface.

"I tried to protect Barbara," I managed, touching my head.

I felt bandages there as well, and antibiotic skin protectant over my face—likely where the cuts were from the fuckers kicking me in the face with their muddy boots.

We were just about to leave; she answered the door, and… fuck, my head hurts…" I mumbled. "Butch Gilzean and company came in. The rest is obvious, I think."

Oswald frowned.

"I told you to be careful," He spoke in a low voice, to avoid attracting attention from his mom.

"And I was. But they're Fish Mooney's men, weren't they?" I reminded indignantly. "How careful could I be? And I wasn't going to let them have her without a fight. Barbara didn't know, though—she thought it was Jim coming to save the day. And he did, towards the end. He got her out of town."

"Maybe you should do the same," Oswald lamented.

"What?"

"Get out of Gotham. You're his sister. You're a target like her."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"What if, as your boss, I ordered you to leave?" Oswald suggested half-heartedly.

"How many times must I say it? You're my lover first, and my boss second. You can order me to leave, but I'll just come right back, so really…. it's a lot of effort on your part for nothing." I said calmly.

I tried to turn on my side, but my ribs were protesting again. I groaned, and reluctantly remained on my back.

"Stop moving."

"I fucking hate this!" I whined. "I don't like not being able to move."

"It'll be fine," Oswald comforted. "Mother has remedies that none of the doctors know about; she'll have you right as rain."

"'Right as rain'?" I repeated, laughing quietly.

Oswald shyly smiled, saying, "Her words, not mine."

"Here we are!" Gertrud cooed, moving between Oswald and myself.

She placed the platter holding three tea cups on the coffee table and sat on the edge of the couch. I flinched away from her on instinct when she moved to hold my shoulders.

"I'm going to move you up on the couch. Okay?"

"I'm fine where I am right now."

"Oh, so stubborn," giggled Gertrud. She gestured for Oswald to help.

"No, no, no, no, no…." I began, but she didn't listen; she held my knees while Oswald took my shoulders and on the count of three, they both lifted me up and over. Oswald placed a pillow under my head, lifting it so I could drink my tea.

Gertrud handed me my cup: "This is an old recipe. Its herbs will make you feel like you're dancing on air."

"What, it'll make me high?" I gasped.

"Something like that," She giggled, shaking her head at my seemingly whimsical nonsense. "But nothing like the drugs that are on the streets these days. You'll like it, trust me."

I glanced at Oswald pointedly before I took a sip. It tasted like green tea, honestly. Nothing unusual.

"Oswald's been telling me all about you," Gertrud gushed. "I didn't realize he was dating someone with talent!"

"What did he tell you?" I asked suspiciously.

"All good things," Oswald interjected, grinning at me.

"Like what for example?"

Gertrud said sweetly, "You know, I was like you at one point, Sylvia? I wanted to be a movie star, with the singing and the dancing. And I was good at it too! And to think that you _are_ a singer, my goodness—I can only imagine!"

I looked at Oswald. He shrugged, but there was a mischievous look in his eye. He'd been feeding Gertrud some exaggerated tales—I had once had the ambition of being a singer or a dancer on stage, but that desire had died a long time ago. And now Gertrud thought I _was_ a singer.

Perhaps that had been the only way Oswald could make her like me. If he told her I was one of his employees who liked looting, mugging, and poisoning people and that I did all of these things with her son, Gertrud might have died of a heart attack.

"What do you sing?" She asked, leaning forward. Interested.

"Um…"

"Mostly arias," Oswald chimed in, smiling at his mom.

"Ooh, those are always good to know," Gertrud giggled happily. "Music these days—ugh, they call that _singing_. You know, when I get on a stage, I would love to sing and dance, just twirl in circles and let my dress lift with the wind—such a freeing experience, you know? Have you ever sung an aria—those are beautiful, so elegant, they are!"

I couldn't help but be a bit disarmed. This woman was a classy gal, indeed. Moreso than I realized, but knowing Oswald, maybe I should've expected it.

"Singing at my son's restaurant must be a very honorable thing, yes?" Gertrud asked.

"Always an honor," I answered, smiling at her then at Oswald. "He doesn't even have to ask."

"A charmer that he is, I doubt he would need to," Gertrud praised.

Oswald turned a deep shade of pink as he listened to us talk so highly about him. After a few more minutes dwelling on the singing that was apparently my occupation, Gertrud excused herself so she could make dinner. As she left, Oswald sat on the coffee table, looking at me.

"You told her I sing for a living?" I asked.

"She bought it, didn't she?" Oswald returned.

"Why did she have to buy it?" I replied. "You could have told her I was a waitress."

"Then I wouldn't be telling her the truth."

"You _didn't_ tell her the truth."

"Of course, I did."

I blinked at him: "How long was I out?"

"You're not going to be a waitress. You'll sing, like I said."

"But I'm not a singer."

"You are. You just don't think you are."

"But I can't."

"But you _can_. I've heard you humming to yourself." Oswald insisted, smirking. "And I hear you in the shower."

It was my turn to blush.

"She seems to like me enough," I muttered, glancing over the couch to see Gertrud moving about the kitchen. "That's a good sign…"

"Of course, she does. I told her that you were the love of my life."

I stared at him, whispering, "You did?"

"I did."

"And how did she react?"

Oswald held his hand out to the obvious.

"I'm surprised she didn't hit you over the head with a frying pan, that sounds more like her," I said quietly.

Oswald shrugged saying, "Yes. The woman is quite unpredictable."

I smiled at him as he leaned over and kissed my forehead. I suddenly felt very tired, and yawned because of it. He placed my hand over his, the other stroked my knuckles with the pad of his thumb. Sleep started over taking me, and I allowed it to do so.

**Chapter 15: The Elephant in the Room**

Chapter Fifteen: The Elephant in the Room

The next few days I spent lying on the couch were the worst, considering I couldn't move without feeling as though my ribs poking my heart. While Oswald was gone to work, it left Gertrud and me alone—which, honestly, wasn't so bad. We would talk mostly about Oswald and his childhood, how he didn't play with any of the children, how he preferred solitude to parties and night to day. We would sing classical lullabies, and we even did them in harmony.

After a week, I was able to move fairly well on my own. I had seemed to disappear from the planet while being in Gertrud's care and when I came back to my apartment, I was surprised to see Jim there. He'd answered my own door, and I stared at him for the longest time.

"I've been trying to call you!" said Jim harshly. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Doesn't matter," I said, waving my hand at him. "Why are _you_ here? How did you get in?"

"I have a set of keys, remember?" He reminded, taking said items from his jacket pocket and holding them out to me.

Seeing the arrangement of my furniture change and a few boxes of eaten through food around, I guessed he had been here for a few days.

"You've been hiding out here?"

I came inside and closing the door.

"It's the second to last place they'd look," Jim replied, smiling at me sarcastically. "Thanks for telling me you were safe by the way."

"Don't give me that tone."

"How are you feeling otherwise?" He looked me up and down. "You seem to have healed all right."

"It's the Gordon blood," I said modestly, sitting on my own couch. "Is Barbara out of town still?"

"Yeah."

He walked to the kitchen where he had placed a shot gun on top of one of the counters and appeared to have been in the middle of cleaning it prior to my appearance. Alongside it was an opened bottle of whiskey. I gave it a suspicious once-over; Jim saw me looking, evidently.

"I'm sober," He assured.

"I'd hope you weren't—answering the door without asking who it is and all. Didn't Dad teach you any better?"

"I figured it was you."

"I've been gone for a week—how could you have known it was me?"

"Instinct?" Jim suggested.

"Well, you certainly have _that_."

His footsteps came closer and I peered up at him as I lied down.

"What are you doing with that?" I inquired, gesturing to the shot gun.

"I'm going to arrest Don Falcone and the Mayor."

He had a strange smile on his face.

"Alone?"

"Harvey's helping me."

"Harvey? Harvey _Bullock_?"

"Harvey Bullock," Jim reaffirmed.

"I thought he wanted to kill you."

"He changed his mind."

"That sounds unreal."

"Well, believe it, because it's true." Jim said dully, cocking his head to the side. "We're going to arrest the Mayor and Falcone **tomorrow**."

"You don't take a break, do you? You're going to be chopped up in a million uncountable pieces before you finally take a moment. But if anything, Dad would be proud."

Jim moved to sit on the couch with me; I sat up so that he could.

"You're worried about me when you should be worried about yourself," He said calmly.

"And why should I be worried?"

"You have the Gordon name for one." He said with a raise of his chin. ( _Did I hear a hint of pride there_?) "And you're open with your relationship with Cobblepot."

"That doesn't change things, really. Falcone won't hurt me."

"Because of the deal Oswald made, right?" Jim said sarcastically. "Who nearly beat you to death?"

"Mooney's men."

"Mooney belongs to Falcone."

"May be, but she clearly doesn't care. And she's not afraid of Falcone. I don't care to know why. Falcone won't hurt me. He wants _you_ , Jim, and only you."

Jim argued, "He'll use you to get to me."

"No, he won't. If anything, he'll go after Barbara. He knows I can handle myself—look how well I did with Mooney's goons."

"You're only alive because I came to the rescue."

I gave him a look saying, "I'm _alive_ because I got the hell out of there and went somewhere I knew was safe. He has a deal with Oswald, and Falcone won't break it."

Jim frowned at me.

"You have a lot of respect for that criminal, don't you?" He said, clearly disgusted.

I stood to my feet and walked into the kitchen. Jim followed me right after. While he and Harvey prepared for what might seem to be an all-out war on Falcone, I was going to make dinner. Jim leaned against the refrigerator, shotgun in hand.

"You don't see it, James," I said, aloof as possible. "You don't see it because you choose not to see it. But whether you want to or not, you will have to realize that Carmine Falcone is not the enemy in Gotham. It's the people—the shitty people—that make Gotham stink. And he's trying to contain it."

"Didn't you say you're one of the shitty people?" Jim recalled, crossing his arms grumpily.

"I did. But I'm not talking about myself. There are people in Gotham who are just sick. Like the Goat dick, or the Balloonman, or this asshole that was putting Viper on the street—those are the shitty people. Compared to them, I'm completely innocent."

"I wouldn't say 'completely'." Jim said curtly. "And 'innocent' might be too good of a word for you."

I put a pan on the stove, and turned to look at him.

"You sound upset that I admire a professional like Falcone, but…." I approached him. "Let's talk about the real elephant in the room."

"Which is what?" Jim challenged.

"With everything that's happened to you in Gotham, you _hate_ the fact that I am still with Oswald," I pointed out. "Don't you?"

Jim curled his lips resentfully.

"He put your life in danger," He argued.

"No, you did!" I rounded, pointing at him. "And quit changing the subject! Believe it or not, while I am thrilled that you didn't shoot him dead and throw his body in the river, it is you who put my life in danger when you chose not to shoot him."

"He came back to Gotham—he put our _lives_ in danger!"

"He came back because of me!"

"And look how well it's turned out for us—for you!" He shouted, placing the shotgun harshly on the counter. "You were nearly beat to death—"

"That was not him—that was Fish—"

"Because he _snitched_ on her to the MCU! And you can stand there and pretend he's a good guy but—"

"—He **is** a good guy!" I snapped, stomping my heel on the tile.

"He has killed people!" Jim emphasized, stepping towards me.

" _SO, HAVE I!_ "

Jim stared at me. His flame nearly died out as he looked at me with new eyes.

Barely a whisper, he asked, "You did?"

I nodded. He leaned against the counter, surprised.

"The first one was on self-defense," I confessed. "He tried to rape me."

Jim looked at me reproachfully: "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"Because it wouldn't have mattered. He didn't get far."

"Do you know where he is?"

"He's dead. I shot him in the face."

Jim's eyes widened.

"I could tell you about the others but…." I waved my hand to the badge that he wore on his belt, "Then you would have to arrest me."

"I wouldn't…."

"You _wouldn't_? Really?"

"You think I would?"

"You're a cop first. You're a cop first and a brother second. That's who you are and you'll always be that."

He looked hurt and he shook his head as though he tried to discredit my past sins with his own affirmations of the past, the ones he used when he was in the Army: "You killed people in self-defense, and to protect others. That's not a crime."

"It is if it _wasn't_ self-defense."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"I just said why."

Jim took his badge and placed it on the counter beside the shotgun, making a point: "I'm not a cop right now. _Right_ now, I am your brother."

"That doesn't matter. You'll say you won't tell anyone, that you won't arrest me, but you will hear what I have to say and immediately spring for the handcuffs. It's just like when we were kids—I told you I hit a kid, you told Dad. I took a package of M&Ms from the store for you and me without paying for them, you told Dad. And when we were five, it was _me_ who took the blame when you shoved Barney Truffles off the slide, and I was suspended for two weeks in the sixth grade for sucker punching Bick McGee because _you_ couldn't teach him a lesson. And when we ditched math class and got caught by Ms. Bunapart, you told Dad it was all _my_ idea."

Jim held out his hands in defense: "We were kids."

"Doesn't matter," I sighed, smiling at Jim. "The only difference between then and now. Dad is gone. Now, 'Dad' is the rest of your cop buddies. Your GCPD. I can't tell you anything I do with Oswald, Jim, because you won't like it at all. And I don't expect you to."

"So, you'll lie to me," Jim assumed darkly. "You'll sink to Cobblepot's level? You'll put other people's lives in danger for a man that—"

"—Off the record, and before you say anything to his discredit, I already have."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"Seeing as how you and Bullock are going to go after Falcone and the Mayor, I figured you'd be dead before sunset so I thought I'd come clean." I said truthfully, turning back to my cooking. I was making grilled cheese. "But in any case, you _do_ live, I'm not telling you anything else."

"You're awfully calm…. knowing that I might die tomorrow."

"Would it change your plans if I was scared?" I offered, glancing over my shoulder. "Would it make you rethink your decision if I begged you not to do it?"

"No."

I smiled knowingly.

"And that's why I'm so calm."

He was silent for the longest time. I heard him behind me, sighing and breathing, but otherwise, he was quiet. When I made two grilled cheese sandwiches and I handed him a plate, he took it but set it on the counter, forgotten already.

"Are you working for him?"

"Am I working for whom?"

" _Falcone_ ," He answered, suddenly irritated.

"No." I turned off the stove and looking at him. "I'm not working for Carmine Falcone. And to save you the trouble of asking the next question—No…. I'm not working for Maroni."

"You're just working with Cobblepot, then," said Jim coldly.

"Working with, working for—all of it kind of blurs together after a while."

"He **works** for Maroni."

"And that's fine—if Oswald worked for Falcone, I'd be doing the same damn thing. I don't work for Falcone, Fish Mooney, Maroni, or fuck all." I declared. "I told you from the beginning that my loyalty is to you and Oswald. Anyone else…They're just background noise."

Jim cleared his throat, apparently trying to get a handle of things.

"If Maroni tells Cobblepot to kill a guy and Cobblepot asks you to kill the guy for him, would you do it?"

I smiled in response.

" _Sylvia_!"

" _What_?" I exclaimed, raising my hands up. "I _told_ you what I have been doing. It's not _my_ fault you don't like what you're hearing."

"Dad would be disappointed," Jim sighed, shaking his head.

"Well, that's nothing new—Dad was already disappointed in me long before any of this happened. I heard that more than 'I love you'." As an afterthought I added, "You're starting to look a lot like him the older you get—all you need is a beard."

I finished my grilled cheese.

"How did you _get_ like this?" Jim asked, staring at me as though he didn't recognize me.

"I was _already_ like this," I pointed to myself. "I've been doing this kind of thing since I was fifteen—the killing only started a few weeks ago."

"Don't tell me that!" He muttered, placing a hand over his face.

"You'll have to make up your mind, dude. You either want me to tell you this stuff or you don't." I said with an exasperated sigh. "You're giving me whiplash over here."

"You're a lost cause, aren't you?" Jim said sarcastically, rubbing his temple.

"Hey, now you _sound_ like Dad." I giggled, grinning at him maliciously.

"Ugh…"

"Here's an idea. You want the same kind of freedom. You just won't allow yourself to give into it. You want to be this awesome cop who puts away the bad guys and does everything perfectly but that's not ever going to happen because it's not realistic. Especially in Gotham. Putting away Falcone and the Mayor isn't going to change things, and you thinking it will…It really makes me feel sorry for you."

I placed my plate in the sink.

"Eat up." I gestured to his untouched sandwich. "You can't go arresting powerful guys with an empty stomach."

Jim took my wrist before I could leave the kitchen. I looked at him, readily expecting a nasty comment. Something similar to what our normal sibling rivalry chats always ended with, but I was surprised with what came next.

"I'm sorry for what I said. You're not a lost cause."

"Oh, I am," I reassured and kissed his cheek. "You just don't want to accept it."

"As long as you're dating that Cobblepot, you…"

"I would be this way regardless if I was with him. The only difference is that he accepts me for what I am. And what I am, Jimmy, is someone who _loves_ crime. You don't see it now, but you and I are the same and we have the same darkness inside—the only difference between us is that I embrace it."

He let go of my arm and I walked away to the bedroom for a nap.

* * *

**Chapter 16: Criminal By Choice**

Early the next morning, Jim was up and getting ready. He hadn't changed his mind about going after Falcone and the Mayor. I made coffee, and watched him pull a shirt over his head then put on his jacket. He looked at me as he straightened up, expecting me to say something to stop him. Instead, I knelt down under the kitchen, grabbed my spare and I placed it on the table.

He looked at it oddly. I poured myself a cup of coffee, holding the warm mug between my hands. It steadied my trembling.

"Take it."

"Sylvia…."

"'Take it', I said.'"

Jim strolled into the kitchen and carefully picked up the gun. It was my spare, but this spare was different than other back-up homey security. In its chamber were sharpened bullet rounds—cop killers, they were called, as they could pierce through any 'bullet-proof' vest.

"Why do you have these?" Jim questioned as he took out the rounds and looked them over. Deeply offended.

"It's like you said. Gotham is sick. Unfortunately, so are some of the cops you work with. In Gotham, a girl needs to protect herself from the creeps that commit crime and the people who claim to protect us from them."

I drank the mug of its entirety, half-wishing it had been vodka but caffeine was a better choice than alcohol at the moment.

"I can make it right," Jim said, more to himself than me. "Gotham can be made safe again."

"If there were more people like you in it, but there aren't." I remarked.

"There are people like you…."

I smiled and placed my empty mug on the counter.

"People like me don't fight bad guys," I said gently. "We've been over this."

"So, we have, but…." He placed the gun on the table, and placed his hands on my arms gently. "That stubbornness, Sylvia, some people call it a 'nuisance', maybe—"

"—You mean Dad—"

"— _Yes,_ I meant Dad," Jim hushed. "You don't have to keep going down this path, Vee."

I smiled at him sweetly: "You've not called me 'Vee' since we were kids."

Jim looked taken aback, but then he reassured himself.

"Look, you're not a lost cause." He held my hand. "You're blinded by love. Misguided."

"Love has only brought out the best in me."

"By killing people?"

I shrugged.

"It's mainly all circumstance. And you want to talk about my relationship with Oswald, but I can save you the effort. Nothing you say will make me leave him."

Jim cursed, withdrawing from me completely.

"I don't know why you don't approve, honestly, now that I think about it," I said curiously, crossing my arms. "He doesn't hit me, and he's never said a single unkind thing. He only wants what's best for me..."

"Then he should have never come back to Gotham."

"That's going to be your number one go-to in this argument, isn't it?"

Jim frowned.

"You're not this person, Sylvia. You're a good person…."

"I know what you're doing—it won't work."

Jim blinked.

I smiled ironically.

"I _know_ I am a good person. But I'm this as well." I gestured to myself. "People aren't all good and all bad, Jimmy. Those are unrealistic expectations. You keep telling me that I'm not supposed to be with Oswald and that he's not good enough for me; I keep telling you that I love him and he loves me. The entire conversation is going around in a loop, and I am sick of it."

He glared.

"What you can expect from me is that I will help you in any case you need it. Whatever Oswald tells me, I can tell you—with limitations. I love you, big brother, but I won't sabotage his ambitions for your own and vice versa."

He glared a little harder.

"What you must _accept…_ " (I touched his shoulder) "is that one day, Oswald Cobblepot and I will get married. And when that happens, he'll be your brother-in-law. Now, I love you, Jimmy. I truly and honestly do and there's not a single damn thing I would not do for you, with the exception of one thing."

I patted his back.

"I will never stop loving Oswald, and I will never leave him."

 _Knock, knock_.

Jim and I looked at each other, instantly on high alert.

"Stay here." He ordered.

"The hell I will; it's my fucking apartment."

I walked after him.

Jim carefully opened the door with the two of us aiming our guns. When I saw Harvey Bullock standing there with a box of doughnuts, I lowered my weapon immediately, Jim following suit. He smiled happily.

"You look cheerful."

"You look beautiful," said Harvey, eyeing my sundress. "Is that new?"

"Just come in," I scoffed, shaking my head.

Jim smiled at Harvey; they embraced like brothers, and Harvey kicked the door closed. He followed us back into the kitchen, setting down the doughnuts.

"This doesn't help the stereotype at all," I said, pointing to the box.

"Shut up and have a doughnut."

"No thanks."

"Well, I am," said Harvey carelessly. "Plate?"

I handed one to him.

"Napkins?"

"What do I look like, your fucking secretary?" I questioned, putting my hands on my hips.

Jim answered for me: "Behind you."

Harvey took a handful of paper towels and placed them on the table. He started eating a doughnut and with much reconsideration, Jim took one as well. I looked at the two of them.

"Two cops versus the Godfather. Isn't this a great picture?"

"You can join us, you know," said Harvey, winking at Jim. "The more, the merrier."

"Again—no thanks," I politely declined. "So how did Jim persuade you into this, huh?"

"Well," Harvey cleared his throat. "Thanks to your great brother here, I am a dead man. So, I figured I go out with a bang."

"That, you will." I leaned against the counter. "Several 'bangs'."

Harvey looked at Jim: "She's really supportive, isn't she? You'd think she be more willing to help after Zsasz came looking for you."

"WHAT?"

Harvey startled, and Jim winced.

I glared at Jim.

"When did Victor come after you?"

Jim opened his mouth to likely give me a story about how it didn't happen that way but Harvey beat him to it.

"He tore up the GCPD station looking for him—all these cops just left, didn't they, partner? They had a chance to save one of our own and they just walked out on him, like a blind date losing interest." Harvey told me, his voice dripping with irritation. "If I was there—"

" _Shut up_ ," I snapped, then looked at Jim. "Is this true!"

"Sylvia..."

"Your entire frat house just **left**?" I seethed.

I could feel my eyes nearly popping out of my face.

"They just _left_ you alone with Victor Zsasz—how the _fuck_ are you even still alive?"

"MCU helped me out," Jim admitted, a little embarrassed.

"That's kind of funny," I stated curtly. "You're worried about _me_ being the bad guy when, really, it's your little cop buddies that are causing you the most problems."

"Well, Zsasz is a rough character—" Harvey started.

I slammed my hand on the table. Harvey silenced immediately. Jim glanced at his partner for a second, then to me. He appeared a little intimidated as I approached the both of them.

"If you want me to come, Jim…. I will."

"No." Jim said, shaking his head. "It's not your place—this is police business."

"Are you sure," interjected Harvey. "She seems to know what she's talking about—"

"—I'm not having my little sister help me take down Falcone and the Mayor, _Bullock._ It's too dangerous."

"How do you expect me to be this good person, Jim, if you won't let me take the opportunity when it presents itself?" I said fiercely. "You're going after one of the most powerful people in Gotham and you won't accept the help because I just so happen to be your blood?"

Harvey commented on the sideline: "She has a point, you know."

"Shut up!" Jim snapped.

"Boy," sighed Harvey, shaking his head. "You two are in a feisty mood today."

Jim looked at me. I stopped him before he could say something else.

"You don't care about me being this good person, Jim," I accused. "You only care about appearances, don't you? You _say_ you want me to walk a different path, but what you **really** want is for me to stop dating Oswald, don't you? You don't care if I have mugged people—"

"—Politician deserved it—" Harvey interjected.

"—Or that I have robbed banks—"

"—Jackasses take more from my check than the skells do—" Harvey sidelined.

"—Or that I have killed people, even—"

Harvey's eyes widened: "Say _what_ now?"

"Seriously!" Jim growled, glaring at him. "Shut up! _Please_?"

Harvey held up his hands in surrender.

Jim looked at me.

"Your sister dating one of Maroni's underlings just _tears_ you apart, doesn't it?" I breathed, stepping closer to him. "You just can't _stand_ it. And you'd rather make this about morals and ethics before you admit it when really, it's your own fucking goddamn pride at stake!" I poked him in the chest. "Isn't that right?"

Harvey chuckled darkly, "She's got you figured out, partner—geez, okay, okay, I'll go in the other room!"

Jim lowered his gun from Harvey's direction, and looked at me again.

"Fine," He resigned. "You're _right._ I'd rather have you dating someone who isn't him. But it's only because I love you."

"No, it's not." I called him on it. "Some of it might be, but that's not the whole reason. You don't like everyone knowing that I'm a criminal, someone who is tearing apart everything you're trying to fix."

"You're wrong."

"Am I?" I challenged, knowing I wasn't. "Because I'm getting a different vibe from you. If you could do it over again, I am certain—I'd bet my life on it—that you'd go back and _really_ kill Oswald. That'd eliminate a great deal of problems for you, would it not?"

"—It would for me—" Harvey interjected from across the room.

"You want me to be this good girl. But not because you're looking out for my best interest. You don't want my criminal tastes _tarnishing_ your good boy reputation. You'd rather me break up with Oswald, and be miserable than ever have to admit to anyone that your little sister is a criminal by _choice_ and not by circumstance."

Jim frowned at me.

"I can tell by your face that I am right."

Jim was seething, breathing heavy. And if it looks could kill, I would be dead. Jim held out his hand; I placed my gun in his palm. He placed the gun in the back of his pants, as a last resort. He looked at Harvey, who was watching us warily.

"Let's go, Harvey." Jim grunted. "I have few things to get at the apartment."

That was just an excuse to get away from me.

He went out the door, followed shortly by Harvey, who gave me a little respectful nod, tipping his hat in my direction, before leaving my humble abode.

**Chapter 17: Pure Love**

Chapter Seventeen: Pure Love

The water was warm, a welcoming friend to temporarily assuage any troubles I had. I allowed myself to sink a little deeper, bending my legs so I could put my whole head under. For a moment, I heard only the water sloshing around in my ear drums, my lungs trying but failing to expand—I could let go, allow the bath water to suffocate me, but what good would that do anyone, particularly for myself?

I breathed the air, wiping the water from my eyes.

_"If you're trying to drown yourself, you're failing miserably at it."_

I startled, looking quickly to my right to see Oswald standing in the bathroom. He was dressed in his usual suit, looking handsome as ever. The only change to his appearance were the very apparent scratches on his face as though someone had hit him. I sat up in my bubble bath.

"What happened to _you_?"

He put the top down on the toilet and sat on it, hands clasped together, ignoring my question.

"Forgive me," Oswald said gently. "I know we haven't really seen each other much in the past week or so, and that's entirely my fault."

"Well, I've been busy with my brother's shenanigans….so let's share the blame, yeah?"

He smiled gratefully.

"So, who did that to you?" I asked, moving to the edge of the bathtub to take a closer look.

"Mooney," Oswald answered, his voice seething.

"I'm not surprised. When did it happen?"

"Couple of days ago," He replied, shaking his head as though it didn't matter.

But it mattered to me.

"What prompted that?"

"If you're not a friend of hers, don't call her 'Fish'," Oswald said half-jokingly. "She came to the restaurant and tried asking Maroni to hand me over. He didn't."

_"So, she hit you."_

His smile faltered.

"Sylvia..." He said slowly as I began to get out of the tub, all the bubbles coming with me and latching onto my skin. "I _know_ that tone. And I _know_ that look—you're not going anywhere near Mooney."

I dried off, and wrapped myself in my robe.

"She hits you and you don't want me to pay it forward? I'll teach that bitch who the _real_ bitch is! She thought me biting her was hard, oh-ho-ho! Get out of my way…"

Oswald stood and placed his hand on my shoulders, saying calmly, "This is a delicate situation we are in. If you go after every single person that's against us, you'll end up dead…. or worse."

"I'm not going to stand by and let that woman—"

"—You're angry, I understand. She sent her idiots to Miss Kean's apartment; they beat you within an inch of your life. Trust me, I completely understand why you'd want to play 'eye for an eye'…."

"I don't care about that!" I rounded coldly. "I don't care that I had my ass handed to me—I care about the fact that she's causing _you_ bodily harm and _I'm_ not there to give her a piece of my mind. I will _not_ sit by and just let her do what she wants."

I made to move past him, but Oswald held me firmly.

"God knows she's done enough to the both of us between her breaking your leg and carving a _fucking fish_ into my neck! Get out of my way, I've gotta go to the bedroom and get a change of clothes."

I tried to move past him, but he pushed me against the bathroom door, closing it in the process.

I looked up at him, eyes wide. I expected him to yell at me, to tell me that I was being foolish and stupid. At least, that's what Jim would have said.

Instead, he shoved his mouth against mine. Like he was possessed, but yet fully in control.

It had been several days since we had a conversation between my going back and forth with Jim and Oswald tending to his homely mother. It didn't dawn on me how much I'd missed him until his soft lips pressed hard against mine. And how he looked at me, like any day I might fly up the chimney.

His hands that pinned me against the door rubbed down my shoulders, taking the fabric with them so my robe fell down my back and puddled around my feet, leaving me naked and exposed. Oswald licked my lower lip, requesting entry…Distracting me.

"I've missed you," He said breathlessly in between kisses.

"I've missed you too."

He held my hips, his thumbs caressing the bone. What started as a distraction became something else.

The texture of his suit rubbing against the exposed flesh made my skin crawl in the most pleasurable way. He dipped his head into the crook of my neck, soft lips kissing, setting my skin ablaze. Then he kissed my throat with his tongue.

I unbuttoned his jacket, and he shrugged it off, carelessly letting it fall onto the bathroom tile. While he took off his vest and shirt, I knelt down and unbuckled his belt, unzipping his pants.

It felt like it'd been forever since we made love. And the thought of him inside of me made me wet.

I pulled down his pants and boxers; he stepped out and without hesitating, he pushed me onto the bathroom floor, moving between my legs.

I gasped.

"What's wrong?" Oswald asked quickly.

"The floor is cold!" I giggled, clicking my knuckles against the tile indicatively.

Oswald snickered as he kissed me; the vibration of his laugh was felt deep in my chest. His cock pressed against the inside of my thigh, hard and ready. Instead of taking me right there, Oswald grazed the heat of my flesh with two fingers, testing the waters, so to speak. They dipped inside; my back arched and I let out a longing sigh.

"You would kill anyone if I asked it of you," He whispered against my neck, licking my earlobe. "Wouldn't you?" He breathed into my ear, and my body shuddered in response.

"Yes."

His fingers curled inside of me, finding the spot I needed him most; my hips lifted in reciprocation; my fingernails digging into my palms.

"I'd give my life," I said breathlessly, looking up at him. "If it meant saving yours."

"That's a lot to sacrifice for something so little of worth," Oswald whispered.

"Not to me."

He looked at me, eyes wide. An array of emotions flickered over his face before settling on a single concept: pure love. Then all the emotions seemed to overtake him. He withdrew his fingers, coated his cock with my wetness, and touched the tip of him just along the slit. I bit my bottom lip as he teased, pushing between the swollen petals but never inside. Just as I loved being teased, it turned him on just hearing my sweet and desperate whines.

His breath was shallow, his body shaking with anticipation. He lowered himself down on me, his chest against my breasts, his hips cradling into mine. I wrapped my arms around his back; my legs around his waist, interlocked at my ankles.

"I love you, Sylvia." He said softly.

"I love you too, baby."

He kissed me, his tongue moving into my mouth and finding my own. Simultaneously, he pressed his cock against my center and slowly pushed inside. I felt every vein, his girth, every part of him move through my sensitive sex. My pussy clenched involuntarily, happily to receive. With the contrast of my body heat and the iciness of the tile, it was like all of these sensations going off all at the same time.

"So tight…." Oswald grunted. "My god…."

He gyrated his hips against mine, taking his time. His slow exits were followed by the slower entry, savoring every moan he extracted, every whimper he heard. As he steadily quickened the pace, I met his thrusts with the rise of my hips.

"This floor is really cold," Oswald noted.

"Told you," I panted, letting out a small chuckle before he silenced me with another kiss.

With the force of his thrusts, my back started scooting across the tile, and it wasn't the most comfortable, honestly. Tired of having to pull me back to him, Oswald growled in frustration.

"Get up."

I obeyed. He took my wrist and pulled me with him to the bedroom. The moment I stepped over the threshold, he was kissing me, and groping every part of my body that he could. I sat on the edge of the bed, smirking at him.

"Move to the middle of the bed." Oswald commanded. "And get on your hands and knees."

I eagerly did as I was told, moving to the middle of the bed, and balanced on all fours.

"So bossy," I teased, sitting on my knees.

Oswald stepped forward, grabbing my hair, tugging it so my head was craned back, and I was forced to look at him. He shoved his mouth onto mine, forcing entry.

"You _like_ being told what to do, remember?" He said hoarsely.

"All too well," I breathed, licking my lips. "It's really turning me on."

"Glad to hear it. Because I like it too."

Oswald lifted himself onto the bed, and crawled behind me. His hands grabbed my butt, fingers spread. I wiggled it in response. He traced my lines, the pads of his fingers smoothing up my spine and pressing down so the upper half of my body bent forward, leaving my lower half up in the air.

"I am going to fuck you from behind," Oswald said calmly. (Hearing him curse made me only that much more willing.) "You will stay on your hands and knees. You will not move from this position unless I tell you otherwise. Do you understand me, Pet?"

I nodded eagerly.

" _Say_ _it_."

My reaffirmation came out shaky, but completely willing: "I understand."

Oswald kissed my lower back in approval. I felt his cock against my pussy, his hands holding my hips, fingers pressing down.

"Is Sylvia ready?" He taunted.

"Yes."

"I'm sure you are, but why should I take your word for it?"

He reached around my front, and slid a finger between my walls. My pussy coated the digit when he pulled it out and I heard him sigh with satisfaction at just how wet I was between my legs. When his cock moved inside of me, a sudden shock of sweet electric energy coursed through my body and up to my brain. From the angle, he could reach my G-spot easily, and lord knows he hit it several times. With only a few thrusts, I was a moaning, wanton mess. My fingers clenched the bed sheets, and my toes curled.

He took a handful of my hair and pulled so hard that my body straightened, forcing me to stand on my knees. A derisive, shaky quiet laugh was my only response. _God, how I loved it_! My pussy tightened around him as his hips gyrated against mine, my breasts bouncing.

Oswald held my neck in one hand, his thumb and index finger pressing on the carotid artery, stopping the blood from going to my head, but the pressure—oh my fucking _god_ , it was intense!

"You're so easy to please, aren't you, honey? Hmm?" He whispered into my ear. (I could barely hear him over my own moaning.) "So responsive….so _eager_."

He bit my earlobe; I keened excitedly.

"Harder…." I whimpered.

"Ask me nicely," Oswald said sternly.

" _Please_ fuck me harder!"

He rubbed my clit, the swollen bundle of nerves overstimulated—I let out a needy moan, so desperate I was to reach my orgasm, so close I was, teetering between the pinnacle of release and the threat of denial. He pushed my head down into the mattress, grabbed my hips and fucked me to my heart's content. When I hit my orgasm, my body shook and convulsed; he pressed his body on top of mine, pinning down my wrists, but still thrusting from behind, enjoying my body's pleasurable seizure as he fucked me through my orgasm.

My voice vocalized on its own accord. As he penetrated deeper and harder, riding out my strongest orgasm yet, his hands moved from my wrists to my own, interlacing his fingers into mine. He made one last thrust that threw me into another orgasm before he caught his own fire, moaning along with me.

_Goddamn it….so fucking good…._

He slowly rolled off me, kissing the nape of my neck and shoulders as he carefully did so. I looked at him, seeing the aftermath of my handiwork—all of him was sweaty, and his hair fell down his face.

"I can't feel my toes," I said secretively.

"That's uncanny," Oswald said, looking up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling. "I can't feel mine either."

"Weird—something must be wrong with you."

He glanced at me, saw that I was giggling, and he broke out into a laugh.

* * *

**Chapter 18: An Opportunity**

I stood on the sidewalk, opposite of _Joe Green's_. I'd walked past this grocery store every day for the past ten weeks, and not just because of the exterior design. This store was run by a large stocky fellow with a black, caterpillar mustache. He wore an apron over his grocer clothes, and each time he greeted his customers, he was always stern. Business was business, in his eyes, and if the customers didn't like the brusque mannerism, then so be it—that was the motto he seemed to live by.

What he sold were a variety of floral settings ranging from potted plants to a grape vineyard which one could have planted in their garden by him or accomplished on one's own time. I didn't much care for plants. Despite their uses for sending out oxygen into the air, I frequently felt more suffocated by them than anything.

I leaned against the building behind me, one belonging to a newspaper gazette that was down on its luck. It would be closed soon if it didn't get the right story. Talk of trivial times—no one wanted to read the paper anymore, it was always full of bad news (stocks were plummeting and the mob families were making profits through the roof) and who really ever read newspapers? Just about everyone in Gotham, I guess.

Robbing a store in front of the newspaper gazette would certainly get them the first look on the story—I could bet that easily. Aside from admiring the floral view of _Joe Green's,_ I was casing the place, looking at its security and admiring its nicely look-through windows. There wasn't much to be seen where security was concerned, but I always suspected that a large man like Joe wouldn't mind putting me through the window if I tried to rob the man, especially if I walked through the front door.

I needed a different way inside.

I felt someone drawing nearer to me despite the many pedestrians walking by. The eyes on me were leering; I turned around to see who was watching. But no one seemed preoccupied with my presence. No one looked suspicious enough for me to question. Still though….

I glanced down the alley beside the building, and a tall man wearing black and a vest with two seated holstered guns came out of the shadows. His head was bald, and he had no eyebrows. The look in his eye was leery, and I knew automatically that this man was responsible for the sick feeling churning in my gut.

"You've been watching me," I said with forced calm.

He sighed, standing next to me, admiring _Joe Green's_ with crossed arms.

"I have." He openly confessed.

He smiled. That was a little more unsettling than his blank expression.

Pleasantly, he asked, "Why are you standing out here in the open?"

"Why, I can't stand here? Free world, and all that shit."

"Still…"

"Where else would I be?"

"Hiding, perhaps?"

"Who the fuck would I be hiding from?"

_This man knew nothing about me._

"Me maybe?" He suggested airily.

I scoffed. Then he straightened, holding his vest with superiority and said with as much professionalism as it suggested: "My name is Victor Zsasz..."

My hand shot to the pocket of my jacket.

I quickly aimed my gun at him.

Victor laughed in surprise, holding up his hands in what might have seemed like surrender to anyone else but I suspected he had been ready for the reaction. He seemed too calm anyway.

"Whoa now," Victor drawled. "Let's not do anything you might regret later, 'kay?"

"Regret killing _you_ , I highly doubt it." I hissed, cocking my gun. "You tried to kill my brother."

Victor lowered his hands, shrugging and saying apathetically, "It's nothing personal."

"Well, I took it personally."

"Sorry to hear about that," Victor returned, faking sadness. "I didn't come here to kill you so you can put _that_ away."

Sensing the honesty, I slowly allowed the hammer to fall back, and placed my gun back in my jacket.

"Why are you here?"

"I come as a messenger, only," Victor said coolly.

I knew who he worked for, so there wasn't much detective work to figure out from there.

I guessed, "A message from Falcone?"

Victor nodded.

He said smoothly, "He wants to warn you not to intervene. This feud does not have to involve you, Miss Gordon. You're not the one he wants. In fact, he gave me direct orders _not_ for you to be harmed in any way shape or form."

"You sound disappointed. And _I_ am not convinced. The same goddamn order came down once before but that didn't stop Mooney's men from beating the shit out of me."

"If I am not mistaken, you went out of your way to keep them from Barbara Kean," Victor mediated. "If you had stepped aside, you would not have been touched."

"Fine then. I won't intervene. For what it's worth, you can put it on the record that I am not happy. Lucky for you, I don't shoot the messenger."

Victor cracked a grin.

"You know you and Jim act a lot alike?" He chuckled when I pushed him aside to keep my eye on Joe's floral grocery store.

"You're not the first person that's told me that. Now go away. I'm working."

Victor followed my gaze to the floral store. He leaned into me; I flinched but he grabbed my shoulder, pulling me back to him as he breathed into my ear, "He never locks the back door."

He withdrew, winking at me, then he walked off.

I stared after him. In that moment, I could say that I liked Victor okay, respected him. He was a professional after all.

I started towards the back of the store, keeping tabs on Joe who was tending to his plants on the inside. I jiggled the door handle, and smiled: It was unlocked.

_Thank you, Zsasz, you reprehensible prick._

I tiptoed through the doorway, minding the low-hanging threshold above. It was dark as fuck inside the building, pitch black. The odor of wet fertilizer and rotting foliage made me sick. I held my hands out to guide my feet through the darkness, seeing a light at the end—the light surrounding a door that no doubt would lead me right behind the counter. The concrete beneath my feet suddenly felt light, my head dizzy with the sudden rush of adrenaline. I could take on Joe—he could be three times my body weight—but I was certain at that moment, I could do anything!

I charged through the door, my gun cocked and aimed for the first person I saw. And that was Joe.

"You!" He growled, starting towards me. But seeing my gun, he stopped short.

"Hey, Joe." I said, smiling widely.

"You've been watching my place for a couple months—I've seen you around." His baritone voice was gruff behind gritted teeth.

"What can I say, I like the flowers."

"You're that cop's sister, ain't you?"

"I didn't come here to talk, asshat. Give me the key to the register. If you do it quickly, I won't shoot your knees. Make me wait—well, you'll see what happens."

Joe grimaced. He moved his hand to his apron pocket.

"Ah-ah!"

"I'm getting the key like you asked."

"Keep the other hand up," I warned. "If I see you take out anything that even looks like a gun, you'll be learning how to play yourself with your _left_ hand."

Joe slowly but surely put his hand in the pocket again and pulled out a shiny gold key. He threw it to my feet.

"Thanks. Now, would you kindly get down on your knees?"

"You bitch—"

"On your _fucking_ knees,you fucking jackass!" I shouted.

"Okay! Geez!" Joe whined. With difficulty, he moved down to the floor, holding his hands up where I could see them.

"You stay there." I motioned to him with my gun. "If you so much as move a muscle, I'll blow your fucking head off. Do you understand me?"

"Understood." He said lowly.

I opened the register, glancing at him suspiciously before taking the money and placing it in my jacket. Just as I was putting the last bill in the pocket of my jeans (I ran out of space in my jacket.). My cell phone rang. I straightened, looking at Joe coolly.

"Don't you fucking move. Remember what I said."

I answered the phone.

"Sylvia." Oswald greeted; his voice was lower than usual.

"Penguin," I greeted back with a smile.

The name seemed to have grown on him, and he appeared content for me to use it…. if not more.

"What are you doing?"

"Not much. How are you, sweetheart?"

"Remember what we talked about?" Oswald questioned calmly. "Professionalism?"

"My apologies, sir," I returned smoothly.

'Penguin', he was to his employees and enemies. Oswald, he was to me…. except when I was playing the role of his Lieutenant. During these phone calls when he sounded business-like and mission forward, he wanted us to be completely professional: not boyfriend and girlfriend, but Boss and Employee. To keep the lines separated and not to mix anything lucrative in there.

I agreed, but it was really hard for me to find the finer lines, so to speak.

He said in the same secretive voice, "Do you remember when you said you wanted to work for me?"

"Yes, I do." I replied, eyeing Joe carefully.

He made a move.

"YOU STAY RIGHT FUCKING THERE!" I shouted, lowering the phone and raising the gun. "You want to die? If you do, this is the best fucking way to do it!"

"I'm going to fucking kill you, bitch."

"You can try, but you'll eat a bullet in the process!" I snapped. I waved my gun at him. "Try something! And if you manage to get the upperhand, you better make sure I stay down otherwise I'm going to come back with a vengeance and make you my new fucking hand puppet. So, _come_ on!"

Joe looked resigned to stay where he was.

I placed the phone back to my ear.

" _Sylvia_!" Oswald was yelling.

"I'm here."

"What the **hell** are you doing?"

"I'm working."

"Are you…. wait, are you _robbing_ a store right now?"

I closed the register.

"As we speak," I replied coyly. "Seemed like a great opportunity."

"Well, are you finished?"

"Almost," I chirped. "Give me one moment."

"Fine."

I lowered the phone.

"I'm going to walk out of this store, Joseph. If you so much as to try to run after me, I'll gun you down. I won't stop there though. I'll go to your house and slaughter your entire fucking family. Then once I've finished painting their blood all over their bedroom walls, I'll rip out your fucking intestines and feed them to the nearest hobo I can find while you fucking rot. If you think I am bluffing, try it. But just so you know—I know where they live."

"You're fucking lying."

"So, you _don't_ live on 15th main street, near the Palisades?" I said knowingly.

Joe's face turned pale.

"That's what I thought." I hopped over the counter. "Now you sit tight and be a good boy, huh?"

The moment I was out of the front door, I started running. I didn't stop until I managed to get three blocks down and I ducked into an alley. I caught my breath, and placed the phone back to my ear.

"Oswald?"

"I'm still here, Honey." He answered gently. Professionalism temporarily out of the way until he was certain that I was in no danger. "Are you okay? You sound out of breath."

"I was running."

"Are you hurt?"

"No." I answered dutifully. "Ship-shape."

"Good," He sighed in relief. Then he asked humorously, "Were you really going to kill his whole family?"

"Well, no—maybe… I don't know, I was improvising."

He laughed on the other side.

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Not at all," said Oswald sincerely. "I thought your threat was quite convincing."

"Now it **really** sounds like you're poking fun, Boss. Anyway, you were saying?"

Back to business.

Oswald spoke factually: "Don Maroni wants to hit Falcone back, to show him that he's not playing around. I'll be leading his men to the Russian. Maroni mentioned to me that we may need more men, depending on what we are up against."

"But you _know_ what you're up against. You know Nikolai—you met him yourself."

"I don't have many people in my employ, none that I deem reliable," He said as though I hadn't said anything.

His voice was quieter now…. like he was trying to speak without being overheard.

"You said you wanted to prove yourself—to show me what you could do. To help me succeed in all my ambitions. You remember that conversation?"

"How could I forget?"

"I want to give you that opportunity."

"Aww, Ozzie!"

"Calm down, Sylvia." He reprimanded. "This isn't a date. It's business. And it'll be dangerous."

"Danger's my middle name," I mused, leaning against the nearest infrastructure. "Well, it's not. It's Diana, but you know what I mean."

"Yes, I got the joke. We're meeting at the restaurant."

"Is that where you'd like me to meet you?"

"Yes," sighed Oswald with a hint of annoyance. "That's where I want you to meet me."

"Just being clear. Don't get your feathers all in a bunch."

"We're leaving in twenty minutes."

"I'll get there in ten." I responded, starting down the road.

I thought that would be the end of the conversation, but then he said softly, "I love you."

"And I, you." I said sweetly.

He hung up, and I pocketed the phone. Two blocks ahead, I found my car, piled the cash into the glove box, and then sped down the intersections, not breaking for any lights or stop signs. I nearly ran over an old lady, but she lived.

As promised, ten minutes later, I parked my car on the curb. When I came through the door, Gabe stopped me. Then he realized who I was.

"Hiya, Gabe." I greeted, smiling with tongue-in-cheek.

"Hi." He answered, giving me a dopey grin back. "I thought the boss gave you the day off."

"I don't just work _here._ " I indicated the restaurant in general.

"Rob any banks recently?" Gabe asked lowly.

"No. Just a florist."

"Sounds like an easy job."

"You have _no_ idea."

Gabe joined me in a little laugh before he walked away to meet with the other fellows, Oswald came up to me, dressed in his best.

"You look dapper as usual," I commented, brushing a piece of lint off his shoulders.

"Honey, when I asked you to rob something," said Oswald quietly, "I didn't realize you would be doing it an hour later."

"You didn't specify a time."

"I didn't think I had to." He hissed.

"Perhaps you should be clearer next time then, hmm?"

I lifted my shirt just a little and from the waist band of my jeans, I pulled out a clip of nicely folded hundred-dollar bills. I handed it to him and he placed it in the inner pocket of his dress jacket.

"I was serious by the way," Oswald stated as he straightened his suit, earning a curious look from myself. "When I said your threat was convincing, I meant it. It was very vivid….and, if I am being honest, a little unsettling."

I beamed at his approval. When I looked happy, he smiled in response. He loved seeing me happy.

He took a seat at the table while we awaited Maroni's men, to include Frankie Carbone. Patiently, I stood behind Oswald. I loosened the collar of his shirt; when my fingers grazed the nape of his neck, he shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders back. He was tense, but not just from what would happen in a few hours. His fingers were lightly rested on the arms of the chair but as I started massaging his neck, they slowly clenched.

"Honey."

"What?" I asked innocently.

"This isn't the time _or_ place." Oswald scolded, looking up at me.

"Is it such a bad thing that I want to make you feel relaxed?"

"I don't _want_ to be relaxed—it'll make me complacent." Oswald snapped, brushing my hands away.

I took a seat beside him: "And by that, you're implying that _I_ would be responsible for making you slip? Catching you off guard?"

"You are the only one that can," Oswald said curtly. "I've told you before—you distract me."

I frowned.

"So _why_ , then, are you asking me to go with you to this warehouse, _hm_?" I questioned briskly.

Oswald looked at me for a moment and the annoyance in his face left completely. He took my hands in his. A simple display of affection lowered my suddenly defensive mood; I melted like butter. All of Maroni's men belonged to _Maroni_. He really had only me to trust, for now. I knew this all too well, and Oswald seemed to reconsider his position.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you," He said remorsefully.

I leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

"Apology accepted. But just keep this in mind," I told him quietly as Maroni's men started inside the restaurant. "The things that make us weak can also make us strong."

Oswald beamed when I forgave him for his snippy remarks. Frankie Carbone approached us and I took my hands away from Oswald's, pointedly looking at the latter in regards to our conversation about the time and place.

"Why are _you_ here?" Frankie grumbled, seeing me.

"Call me a tourist," I said modestly as I stood to my feet. "But I do love to see the sights. I hear we're going to blow stuff up. When do we start?"

Frankie looked annoyed, glancing at Maroni who didn't seem to care in the slightest that I was coming along. After all, it was one more man to get the job done. Then we started on our way, on foot.

The walk there was a little tense with Oswald leading our little wolf pack: Frankie and myself in the middle, and Gabe and a dark-haired, brown-eyed Italian by the name of Tomas gathering at the rear. Everyone but Oswald carried some kind of gun, myself included. In my hand was a pistol—the smaller the weapon, the better I wielded it. Machine guns, I found, only made me clumsy and encumbered.

Oswald led us to a door, which read 'Authorized Personnel Only', seemingly sealed from the outside.

"In here, not much further," He said, approaching the double door and sliding it aside—not even locked!

Through it was a mess of warehouses.

He stopped and pointed to one in particular.

"It's there."

He looked at Frankie.

Frankie nodded and held out his hand for the bomb. After Tomas gave it to him, he smacked it on the door, keyed in the code, and in a minute, the door exploded off the hinges, creating a fine cover of smoke and debris. Gabe, Frankie, and Tomas charged in, gunning down anyone that moved. I strolled in as the debris was settling, looking up and around, noticing that aside from the stack of cash sitting around in bags and crates, there was not much else to look at.

"See," Oswald boasted happily. "Easy as pie! There must be a million dollars' worth here."

"Yeah, you told us all right," Frankie drawled. "You're clever. You're _very_ clever."

I narrowed my eyes at Frankie and suddenly there was nothing more I wanted to do than knock his teeth out.

"I sense a sarcastic and hostile edge to your tone," Oswald noted coolly.

"Hostile?" Frankie questioned, advancing towards him.

He struck Oswald in the stomach, hard. He went down, grunting.

"You bastard!" I snapped.

Frankie then struck me in the face, knocking me to my knees. Gabe grabbed my arms and held me back. I rubbed my jaw. My pistol was snatched from me and was tossed far away from my reach.

"You got that right," Frankie mused, smirking at him. "You ain't no golden goose, you're a yellow-rat snitch. And you've got Maroni all twisted."

Oswald gathered himself, standing to his feet, while also holding his stomach.

"I'm so glad we're finally clearing the air, at last!" He laughed weakly, smiling.

Frankie grabbed Oswald by the collar, pulling him forward.

"You, _asshole_ , I swear—"

"If she moves," said Frankie, glaring at me. "You shoot her."

"I don't shoot girls," Gabe muttered, looking suddenly sad, but he kept his hands on me so as to keep me down.

"Act smart," Frankie threatened Oswald. "Because all I gotta do is put a bullet in your brain right here" (I tried to get up by Gabe pushed me back down) "see then, I go back to the boss and tell him that one of Niko's boys shot ya. 'Gee, that's too bad'. End of _story_." Frankie hissed, pushing Oswald away. "As for her..."—He grinned maliciously at me— "We'll think of something else."

"Clever enough," Oswald patronized. "But I never doubted your intelligence. That's not your problem."

"Oh, I have a problem? No, _you_ have a problem. What's _my_ problem, Shmo?"

"What drives you?" Oswald questioned.

Frankie looked at me with a 'wtf' expression and I shrugged, just as curious as he.

"What's your _passion_? When you know what a man loves, you know what can kill him," said Oswald grinning.

"So, following that logic, this little slut could shoot you instead." Frankie snickered. "That would certainly save _me_ the trouble. In fact, Maroni would probably believe that more. People always getting into scraps about nothing—she seems like the argumentative type, amirite?"

I bared my teeth like a cat and hissed at him; Gabe sent Frankie a look that read something along the lines of 'stop pissing her off, man'.

"If one were to follow the logic, yes. She very well **could** shoot me," Oswald said, gesticulating to me.

"We could try it," Frankie chuckled darkly. "See how quick your 'passion' kills you."

"We're not talking about her," Oswald reminded him; his voice sounded almost detached.

"Yeah, _asshole_ ," I interjected. "We're not talking about me… _fucker._ "

"You believe these guys?" Frankie muttered, glancing at the other men.

"Your passion is money," said Oswald, pulling his attention back to him. "You _love_ money. More than power and respect. You're a skinflint, Mr. Carbone. A _cheapskate_."

And just with a glance from Oswald to Gabe, the tables drastically turned. Gabe released me and I was able to stand up while he and Tomas grabbed both of Frankie Carbone's arms, restraining him. As big as both Tomas and Gabe were, Frankie had no possible leeway in strength.

"Wait, what are you guys playing at—let me go!" Frankie urged.

There was that familiar panic.

"Sorry, Frankie," Gabe spoke in his low baritone.

I stared at the scene folding out in front of me, stepping back.

"As I say, a cheapskate. And consequently, you don't pay your people enough!"

Well, that certainly explained why he wanted me to rob something—Oswald had given Tomas and Gabe the money I had stolen, enough to turn them against Frankie Carbone.

There was fear in Frankie's eyes—pure, legitimate fear—as Oswald pulled out a switch blade from the inside of his jacket. I realized at this point this would be the first time I would have ever seen Oswald actually take a life—sure, he beat the shit out of a guy who had stolen from Fish (back when he was her Umbrella Boy) but this was Frankie Carbone, Maroni's right-hand man.

I had never been more attracted to him.

"It is a sad fact," Oswald lamented, "that there is no honor among thieves."

Despite Frankie's increasingly loud protests, his restraints remained in place, holding him just as Oswald slid the blade through Frankie's stomach, like a knife into warm butter. He stabbed him twice, deep and slow. A few more times after that, actually.

_Riveting._

"The simple offer of a substantial pay raise was all it took to sway these fine men," said Oswald, grinning from ear-to-ear. "So, you see, _that's_ your problem! Your greatest passion becomes your greatest weakness!"

He stabbed him again and then pulled the blade completely out.

Frankie was screaming in pain, losing his balance and falling to his knees. I cocked my head to the side, watching him bleed out.

Oswald looked down at him, panting. He caressed the man's face.

" _Love_ , Mr. Carbone." Oswald told him softly, glancing at me then turning back to him. "Love conquers all."

Frankie's screams had died and slowly became nothing more than moans. Gabe and Tomas dropped him carelessly on the floor. Oswald looked expectantly at me, straightening his tie, expecting me to do something or say something that might retract from his otherwise brief homicidal break.

I simply strode over to where my pistol had been thrown and stepped over to Frankie, looking down at him.

"Poor bastard," I sighed, shaking my head. "You really want to die right now, don't you?"

He lifted his hand to me, and touched my ankle.

"Mm…." I mused. "I'll take that as a 'yes'."

I shot him in the head. Gabe and Tomas startled. Oswald grinned as I stepped over Frankie, smirking at him.

"Get the money," Oswald ordered of the other two.

"Sure thing, boss." Gabe obeyed.

Oswald turned to me.

"You did beautifully, my dear."

"Why didn't you tell me what you were planning?" I asked, glancing at Gabe and Tomas.

"If you knew they were not a threat, would you have reacted the same way?" Oswald asked smoothly.

"No…. perhaps not." I added a little disapprovingly, "But a head's-up _would_ have been nice."

"It wasn't necessary," He said, folding his hands together in front of him.

"Maybe not to you, but…"

He leaned into me, kissing my cheek as if asking for my forgiveness. I turned my head slightly so his kiss met my mouth. It caught me off guard when he licked my bottom lip, and when I granted him the invitation, he deepened it.

I whispered to him, "Fucking _genius_ , you are. You have _no_ idea how bad I want to fuck you right now."

"Duly noted," He answered, winking at me.

That response only made me want him more.

"Pack it up, boys!" Oswald said, making a gesture for them to rally. "We're heading out. We'll have to let Don Maroni know what happened. Anyone want to be the messenger?"

Neither Tomas or Gabe volunteered.

Oswald grinned, saying, "Kidding! You should see the look on your faces!" And he shook his head, laughing.

They both sighed in relief, laughing nervously afterwards.

* * *

**Chapter 19: A Meeting About Another Meeting**

Frankie Carbone, an underling of Maroni's, had died (supposedly) at the hands of Nikolai, one of Falcone's underlings, during the fire fight. Within a few hours of the incident, Maroni and company received word that Falcone wanted to meet near the pier, just the two Families—no Tommy Bones or the Duke, nor the Drays, Andersons, Belichs, no one else…. they weren't part of this dispute.

The restaurant was where Maroni and his people sat around the table, talking about what could happen, what may arise during the meeting, and whether or not bringing weapons was a necessity, and other vital issues soon rose.

Maroni sat at the middle of the table, watching everyone talk. Oswald was on his right-hand side, seated in the very spot Carbone used to keep warm. Per the Don's request, I placed a fresh glass of booze in front of him. He smiled kindly at me.

"Thanks, babes."

I nodded wordlessly.

"Have a seat," said Maroni, gesturing to his left side.

"With all due respect, sir." I said with a small smile. "I'd rather remain standing."

He took care to notice that I remained just behind Oswald, on _his_ right side. Maroni shrugged a shoulder like he didn't give a crap whether I stood or sat; he was only being polite, after all. Oswald looked up at me from his seat then smiled to himself. I preferred standing next to Oswald any time of the day than sit next to one of the most powerful men in Gotham City. That meant something to him.

Maroni asked what his men thought about the situation. Across from him, an equally stocky man who had a habit of always wearing something yellow was talking.

"Why does Falcone want to see us anyway?" Mack said suspiciously, crossing his arms on the table. "He can't just call and tell us what he wants to say? Wouldn't that be so much easier?"

"Why?" Maroni said cattily. "Got somewhere to be?"

Mack looked like he might say that he did, but seeing as self-preservation was a priority, he appeared apologetic suddenly. He waved down one of the waiters and asked for a shot of whiskey.

"Why does he want to meet near the pier?" asked Crenshaw—nice guy, tall, had a thick Italian accent. "Ain't that _his_ territory?"

"It's neutral territory," said Maroni coolly. "Equal ground."

"What does he want, though?"

"Haven't you been listening?" snapped Mack, tossing back the whiskey the waiter brought by in a jiffy. "He wants to talk!"

"Talk about _what_?" Crenshaw retorted, shaking his head. "The whole thing has me uneasy. We should bring back-up."

Maroni shook his head: "That'll make us look like we're compensating for something. What do you think, Penguin?"

Oswald opened his mouth like he might say something, but then Mack interrupted him.

"He's planning something, you know. An ambush…. maybe?"

Oswald sighed, glancing at Maroni.

Maroni leaned forward saying, "That's _stupid_ thinking, Macky. Falcone's a pain in the ass but he isn't sneaky. Old-fashioned fella."

I cleared my throat.

Oswald looked up at me and Maroni's eyes glanced in my direction.

"Got something to say, babes?" Maroni asked curiously.

"If I may?" I offered.

Maroni gestured in my direction.

Before I could speak, Mack began: "Maybe it's a decoy—"

"— _It's not_."

He glared at my interruption.

"How the hell would you know?" questioned Mack curtly. "You got some secret sixth sense hiding up your crotch hole?"

Oswald appeared ready to come to my defense, but it wasn't needed.

"Fuck you, Mack."

"Suck me, bitch."

"Sorry, _small_ objects are a choking hazard," I snarled.

Maroni slammed his hand on the table, just as Mack and I were gearing up to fight. My jaw clenched in irritation as I looked at Mack who was glaring at me from across the table. I was only five paces away from kicking his face in, but seeing as Maroni obviously protested violence in the family, I crossed my arms and seethed while Mack lowered himself back in his seat.

Oswald silently patted the chair beside him and sensing the tension in the room, I obeyed the nonverbal order. He placed his hand on my thigh, a comforting gesture. I crossed my arms as Maroni looked upon all of us, restoring order.

"I know we've lost a lot of good guys, including Frankie," He said coolly. (Oswald and I glanced at each other knowingly.) "But there isn't any reason we need to have a go at each other."

There was a mixture of disgruntled agreement among the table.

Maroni looked at me: "You were saying?"

"It's not a decoy," I said coolly, glaring sideways at Mack, then at Maroni once more. "It's not an ambush either. And you're right, sir—we've lost men, but so has Falcone. Meeting on neutral ground, it's a treaty. It's a compromise to be made."

Maroni leaned forward, fingers interlaced together on the table, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

"You're not just a pretty face, _are_ you, Sylvia?"

I felt Oswald's fingers squeeze my thigh; hidden under the surface of calm and hallow respect was a tinge of jealousy slowly grinding away in his mind at the image of Maroni even _thinking_ about my 'pretty' face. I smiled inwardly. _Ah, possessive little Ozzie. Kind of cute in a way._

I shrugged modestly.

"Fish isn't going to give Penguin up easily," said Maroni smoothly, smirking at Oswald.

"What Fish wants is irrelevant. Just like anything we want is irrelevant to _your_ decision. If you want to go meet Falcone, who are we to argue with you, yeah?"

Maroni laughed in genuine amusement, showing teeth.

" _You're_ funny!" He said, pointing at me. "A _real_ class act, aren't you? You're funny, but you're right." He stroked his chin, looking at all of us. "We'll meet him."

"It's a waste of time, boss…." Mack muttered, shaking his head. "I don't think we should go…."

I glared at Mack saying pointedly, "It's not really up to you, is it? Besides, Falcone isn't interested in making a deal with _you_. He's not meeting **_us_**. He's meeting Don Maroni. _Your_ presence isn't necessary, you yellow sponge cake."

"Penguin, why don't you try keeping your broad on a leash, huh?" snorted Mack, glaring at me.

"On a contrary, I like her just the way she is," Oswald responded coolly, smiling sarcastically at him.

"It's done—Crenshaw, get the car. We're going to the pier. Bring a few of our guys, but don't bring _all_ of them. It'll look like a bunch of Italians climbing out of a clown car if we do," Maroni stated, getting to his feet. "Sylvia—you coming or staying?"

The fact that I had a choice in the matter made me ponder my relationship with the man.

Just as soon as he'd asked me, a few waiters and the bartender ran up to me and started talking about switching shifts and such. I'd been so caught up in the whole thing with Maroni, and Frankie's demise, I'd completely forgotten my role as a shift leader in the restaurant—granted I was no longer working there as a waitress.

Maroni waved to me and left, apparently, I was excused from the ordeal. Oswald remained behind, while I spoke to each of his employees individually about holiday pay, and the like. When the trifles were over and all was compromised and out of the way, I turned to see Oswald standing with his hands clasped in front of him. He appeared to be contemplating something, deep in thought. I took a seat, taking a buttered roll from the basket sitting in the middle of the table.

"You're certainly in deep thought," I noted, tearing off a piece.

My voice shook him out of his reverie.

Oswald pulled a chair, sitting next to me, and took my left hand in his. For what felt like the longest time, he traced every line on my palm, thoughtful…. sweet. His lips parted to speak what was on his mind, but nothing came out. I put down the bread and turned completely, body facing him. His eyes met mine.

"I see the gears turning in your glorious brain," I told him quietly, smiling a little. "You're troubled."

"Troubled, I am not." Oswald reassured, smiling too. "But…." (Seriousness replaced the smile almost immediately) "Don Maroni may not care whether or not you come with him to this meeting, but I do."

 _Aww_ , _how touching_!

"I doubt I should go, Oz."

"You're not frightened of Don Falcone, are you?"

"Falcone? Oh no, god no. It's Fish. When I think about her, I want to tear her eyes out and wear them on a key chain."

Oswald chuckled, "You have the most vivid aspirations known to man, my dear. But…. we share a passion when it comes to Fish Mooney. By not being present at the compromise, you will only be validating what she already thinks about you."

"I don't care what Fish thinks about me." I paused: "Wait, _what_ does she think about me?"

Oswald sat back in his chair.

"She believes," He said quietly, "that she has you beaten, that she has won."

"She carves a fish into my neck, gives you a limp, and sends her idiots to beat the shit out of me, and thinks by doing all of that, she's won? Won _what_? _"_

Oswald shrugged, saying, "That part, my dear, is unclear to me."

I stood to my feet, eating the rest of the butter roll, and sat on the table.

"I didn't even realize we were _playing_ ," I laughed, shrugging a shoulder. Then I looked at Oswald: "How do you know all of this? What she's thinking, I mean. You haven't talked to her, have you?"

"You're right. I haven't talked to _her_."

I titled my head in curiosity. Oswald moved to his feet, pushing the chair into the table; when he approached, he had a little devious smile as he stood in front of me. Silently, he placed his hands on my knees and ever so gently separated them so he could move between them. I could feel the heat rising to my face.

"What do you know that you aren't telling me?" I asked him softly.

He looked down at my lap, the hem of my dress had slowly crept up and above my thighs. His hands caressed the exposed flesh and for a moment, he looked as though he was lost in a trance. Then he met my eyes.

"What I am about to tell you stays strictly between us, Pet." Oswald said sternly.

I nodded dutifully, glancing at the staff of the restaurant. They seemed to play smart to mind their own business. But even their honored ignorance didn't seem enough for whatever secret Oswald had to share. He leaned into me, and kissed my neck. To the bystander, it was a display of public affection; for Oswald, it was a tactic. A strategist, he was.

In the simple gesture, two things happened. The hairs on my neck stood on end as my skin turned to goose flesh. And Oswald whispered, "Don Falcone."

I furrowed my eyebrows in response, only puzzled for a minute before putting the two pieces together.

"You're working for _him_?" I asked incredulously.

"It doesn't appear that way, but that's the point, isn't it?"

"He tried to have you killed, Oz." I hissed, staring at him. "And he sent Zsasz after my brother! How can you work for Don F—"

Oswald held up his hand to silence me. Then he gestured for me to follow him. I closed the door to his office after we both went inside.

"Before you become once more heavily ensconced in your fury," Oswald stated preemptively as he sat at his desk, "I'd like you to remember why you were not harmed even after my sentence was handed down."

"You asked him to spare me."

"Precisely. And how do you suppose I ensured your safety?" Oswald replied, interlacing his fingers on the surface.

"You promised to work for Falcone _if_ you survived. Big stroke of luck that it was Jim who was given the job, huh?"

"Honestly, there was no 'if'." He relented, smirking. "It was I who asked Falcone to give the job of killing me to Jim Gordon."

I smacked him on the arm, _hard_.

"Are you fucking kidding me! Do you have any idea what kind a situation you put me in! You put my brother in one hell of a position, Oswald!" I scolded. "He's a fucking moralist, you know. Having someone like Falcone order him to kill _anyone—_ "

"I understand why you're upset," said Oswald, holding his hands out cautiously. "And you have every right to be. But if it wasn't Jim who was going to kill me, I would be dead. As I told Falcone, he is the only one in the GCPD that still possesses one _hell_ of a conscience."

I strode towards the desk, placing my hands on the edge as I leaned forward.

"You didn't think to tell me what you were planning!"

Oswald smiled innocently, saying, "If you knew what I was planning, you'd not have played your part so well."

"What _fucking **part**_?" I snapped. "It was one thing to make me believe that Carbone might kill you, but I thought you were dead, _Oswald_. I nearly jumped off the roof of my apartment when I thought Jim had killed you!"

His face turned pale.

"You did?" Oswald asked.

"I did." I reaffirmed harshly. "If it hadn't been for Jim telling me what really happened, I would have done it too."

Oswald sat back in his seat, looking drained. A silent moment passed between us during which he contemplated his past decisions, knowing that he meant so much to me that I would have taken my own life so that I could be with him again. The sneaky expression for having such a strategic mind changed to one of remorse and he looked at me with puppy dog eyes.

"It doesn't matter now," I said hoarsely.

I walked past the desk to his right side and knelt down, sitting on my knees.

"I get why you did it," I said patiently. "But still…Jim is…"

He looked at me reproachfully.

"You're working for Falcone while under the guise of working for Maroni. It's precisely this kind of work that nearly had you killed in the first place," I said softly.

Oswald smiled at me. I wasn't sure what he was so happy about or if he was just amused in general.

"Are you going to beg me to stop?" He asked curiously.

"Of course not," I said, surprising him. "But I would like us to move forward with a little more caution. Can you promise me that? And…I don't know…grant to me some type of gateway into that big brain of yours so I don't suffer a huge heart attack? I can _act_ surprised."

"That much, I can promise you." Oswald returned.

He kissed me. I kissed him back. I stood to my feet and, smiling, I turned his chair to face my direction so I could sit on his lap. He grinned knowingly as I straddled him. I loosened his tie; he lifted the hem of my dress above my thighs, the fabric pooling around my waist. Oswald placed soft kisses along my neck and throat, lighting my flesh ablaze. His thumbs encircled my inner thighs, massaging and enticing my hips to a slow, rhythmic grind. After a few minutes, I could feel his hard-on; I grinned at my progress.

I felt a vibration against my knee, and for a moment I was curious before the music accompanied it—his cellphone stashed away in his pant pocket was ringing. At first, he ignored it, and it worked at first when the ringing died. Then it started up again.

"You might want to check that," I told him quietly, leaning forward and kissing his neck. "It could be important."

He adjusted his position, pulling the phone out. He suddenly sighed in exasperation.

"What?" I asked.

He showed me the caller ID.

It was his mom.

"That woman has impeccable timing," I giggled. "Go ahead." I licked his throat. "Answer it."

"I am not—"

"—If you don't, she'll just keep calling." I reminded evenly. "Trust me…. thirty phone calls in one day is not even a record for her."

As he answered the call, I started undoing the buttons of his jacket. He looked at me pointedly, but I wasn't put off.

"Hi, Mother," Oswald answered, forcing a smile.

The conversation between them was hilarious to me as he said curiously, "Why are you rearranging furniture in the first place…. ask Mr. Yatsko to help—he's always volunteering his time anyway…."

When his jacket was unbuttoned, I started on his vest.

"It probably won't be done tonight, Mom, I have a business meeting coming up…." Oswald sighed, looking up at the ceiling as though praying for some patience. "The restaurant business is fine; I'm only meeting with a few associates."

"Sit up…." I whispered.

Oswald leaned forward and he shrugged off the vest and jacket while I helped take it off, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear as he listened to his mom talk about…. moving furniture.

"It can't wait until tomorrow?" Oswald inquired.

I looked at him curiously. He placed a hand over the speaker portion of the phone.

"What does she want?" I asked.

"She wants help moving furniture," Oswald whispered.

"Mr. Yatsko won't help?"

"He's gone for the week, apparently."

"Pfft, neighbors," I said, rolling my eyes. "They're only good for calling the cops, or not at all. Typical."

I slid off his lap in favor of the floor, placing myself between his legs. He watched me with a strange smile on his face, like he simultaneously wanted me to continue and to stop. Either way, I kept on going, loosening the belt and unzipping his pants. Oswald lowered his hand from the speaker of the phone, tangling his fingers through my hair.

"Don't move it by yourself," Oswald sighed; it was his turn to roll his eyes. "No…. Because a lot of the furniture is five times your weight. No…. I'm not telling you what to do."

"Tell her I will help her when I get home," I relented.

He might have rejected the offer if it didn't involve his mother asking for assistance. To quickly appease her, Oswald offered my suggestion and from the look of his face, she seemed pleased by it. After agreeing that I would be home to help, she hung up. He tossed the phone onto the desk, looking down at me as I pulled his cock out to play.

"She liked the idea," Oswald relayed to me as he ran his fingers through my hair.

"So glad she did…." I mused.

He was soft again but as I slowly worked him in my hands, he began to stiffen once more. I put him in my mouth, rolling my tongue around his shaft to the tip. I grinned when he moaned quietly.

"It appears you won't be going to the meeting after all," Oswald murmured, closing his eyes and allowing himself to give into the sensation of me sucking his dick.

I let him go with a _pop_ , smirking up at him.

"It appears that way. You'll have to tell me how it goes."

His eyes followed me as I straightened, bending down only a moment to slide my underwear down my legs. I stepped out of them, and straddled him again. I ran my hands up and down his chest, over the white collared long-sleeve shirt he still wore.

His phone began to ring again.

Oswald cursed under his breath.

I leaned back grabbing the phone from the desk. I took one look at the name on the caller ID, and rolled my eyes.

"He's busy," I answered sharply.

"Tell him to get un-busy," Mack said on the other line. "We got the car and we're on our way to the pier. We're waiting outside."

Oswald looked up at me curiously.

"I'll let him know," I said coolly.

"Be sure that you do."

"Calm down, Spongecake. No need to threaten me." I returned, grinning widely. "He'll be out in twenty."

 _Click_.

Asshole hung up on me.

"The Calvary's here," I said, placing the phone on the desk once more.

Oswald made to move, but I remained seated on him.

"Sylvia…."

"I told them you'd be out in twenty minutes." I told him smoothly. "So, they can wait. I, on the other hand, will not."

Oswald realized that I wasn't letting him up any time soon. As wet as I was from sucking his dick, I didn't need any foreplay to sink my pussy onto him, feeling him deep inside. Oswald's head fell back against the chair, eyes closed, and a moan escaped his parted lips.

I didn't even need the full twenty minutes.

* * *

**Chapter 20: Jim Drops By For A Visit**

**Author's Note/Disclaimer:** Thanks again to those who have reviewed my story! I love hearing what people like about it. As a Disclaimer, I will state that the plot of _Gotham_ will be featured in my story and while some things will remain the same, I will be twisting a few subplots to fit my work. However, credit for the show's original plotlines belong to _Gotham_ 's writers. Much love!

Helping Gertrud move shit around was harder than I thought it was going to be. Her furniture was antique-y so everything I literally touched had to be moved 'very carefully'. Her couch was probably the heaviest, even with the two of us lifting and moving it only an inch. And sure as shit when it was finally in the right position and placement, she wanted it put back where it was originally, she didn't like it so we were lifting and moving the damn upholstery for the next hour. Three hours later, my T-shirt was damp with sweat and I was certain my arms were going to fall off.

Mr. Yatsko was lucky he was out for the week—he would have died trying to help her.

Upset that she wasn't able to find the right arrangement, Gertrud sat down on the crooked couch, crossing her arms in a kind of pout. Her lips even puffed out as she shook her head, looking as though she might cry, even. I sat down on the adjacent cushion, leaning forward as I took a breather.

"It looks nothing like I wanted it to," Gertrud complained as she smacked the back of the couch.

"Give it time," I told her; I rolled my shoulders back and I felt my spine pop in three places.

Gertrud heard it too as she raised her eyebrows and looked at me remorsefully.

"Is this task hurting you?"

"Eh," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "I've been through tougher tasks. Don't worry about me."

She stood to her feet, tapping her chin with her right index finger, and started thinking aloud.

"Perhaps if we moved the coffee table, it would make things more…" She gestured with her hands.

"Open?" I offered.

"Something like that," She answered, biting the inside of her cheek. "But then the glare of the light, it'll be too much for my eyes."

"Why move any of it, though?" I asked.

She gave me a look that made me hold up my hands reproachfully—Fish Mooney was nothing compared to the evil eye this woman gave me!

"I'm all for the work out, Gertrud," I said gently. "I just want to know why."

"Change, I suppose," She sighed, looking at the entire living room in a generalized way. "I've had this place the same way ever since my little cobblepot was a baby, a tiny little swaddled thing in my arms." She rocked an invisible baby in her arms, and a genuine smile of reminisce tugged at her lips.

"Change is good," I said with a smile of my own. "Too bad Mr. Yatsko was out of town, huh?"

"Eesh, that Yatsko," said Gertrud, waving her hand dismissively at the door. "He all talk….no muscle, not great company."

She placed her hand on my shoulder.

"Thank you for helping me. Oswald would have but…. that restaurant keeps him busy day and night. Why is that?"

"Business is harder these days. He'll come by when he can."

She looked at me as though I might say something more, but I didn't. She grinned suddenly, like a light bulb lighting up above her head.

"I know what we should do!" She gushed, the grin widening. "We should move the couch right there, the coffee table in front of it!"

"That's where it was before though."

"What can I say?" Gertrud giggled. "Turns out I didn't want anything moved after all."

I couldn't help but mentally hit myself over the head with the frying pan or hope that the chandelier above me would fall and crack my skull open. Despite my ailing jelly arms and the headache that was coming on, I put a pep in my step.

"Alright, let get this thing going," I said, rubbing my hands together.

"After, we might have to vacuum."

_Fuck._

My face hit the couch in my own apartment the moment I came in. I'd just considered taking a shower and having a drink when someone knocked on my door. My muscles ached, and I was amazed my arms were still attached to my body.

That didn't deter me from answering the door. I let out a sigh of relief when I saw that it was Jim, who looked just as relieved as I was.

"Good to see you're still alive," I noted, smiling at him.

I stepped aside and he came in, glancing at me before I closed the door to note that I was sweaty and tired.

"That's a different sight for sore eyes," said Jim airily, putting his hands on his waist as I locked the door.

"What is?"

"Not seeing Cobblepot snaked around your waist."

"Pipe down," I reprimanded tiredly. "You came to _me_ and you're in _my_ apartment. Mind your manners, yeah?"

Jim said nothing in response (what could he say to that, really?) and I walked to the kitchen, taking out a package of microwavable popcorn from the cabinet and a chilled bottle of wine from the refrigerator. Seeing where I was going with it, he took a seat at the table, and I placed a wine glass in front of him, filling it to the brim. He smiled in response, not as callous as he normally was. I joined him at the table, looking at him pointedly.

"What have you been doing?" Jim asked, giving my disposition another look.

"Helping Oswald's mother move furniture around," I replied seriously.

"I thought you'd be up to your ears in crime by now, settling scores…."

" _You're_ in a sour mood today. Wanna tell me about it, champ?"

Jim let out an exhausted sigh.

"Where do I even start?"

"Most people start from the beginning, but we both know how you don't like to be like everybody else."

"How come you have to say it like that? You're the same way, you know."

"I do know," I agreed, grinning.

Jim looked haggard, more than usual. His face just screamed 'one bad day', and there was a curious steadiness to his hand that tipped the wine into his mouth. He took three gulps and it was already gone. Curiously, I poured him a second glass.

"I see Falcone is still alive and well. As well as our prick of a mayor. What happened to you and Harvey Bullock taking them down in a glorious battle?" I questioned, balancing my chin on my hand. "Bang, bang, and all that crap?"

"Falcone got to Barbara before I could do anything."

Concerned, I asked, "Is she all right?"

"She's fine," Jim returned apathetically.

"Are _you_?"

Jim drank half the glass this time, setting it down. He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, a grumpy expression frosting his features.

"She's fine otherwise. Scared, but…. physically, she's fine," He said hoarsely. "Victor Zsasz had her."

"Can't say I blame her for being a little scared. Victor's not exactly a homey guy to be around," I stated, taking a sip of my own wine.

Jim gave me a look.

"What?"

"Did he get to _you_?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "But he's the reason I didn't intervene. He was a messenger—saying Falcone only wanted _you. You_ were on the contract, not me, he said." I added more as an afterthought: "Granted, had I known that all your cop buddies were going to leave you alone, I might have done something differently. What an asshole move, you know?"

Jim snarled quietly, lips upturning in a grim smile.

"Yeah, I didn't think that was going to happen either, to be honest," He muttered, shaking his head.

Looking up at me, he asked, "Did Zsasz threaten you?"

"No," I returned simply. "We spoke outside of a floral store, where he made Falcone's intentions very clear. Then he told me how to bust into Joe Green's place and take all of his money."

Jim said harshly, "So you're friendly with _him_ now?"

"Of course not. He was just being helpful. Best hit _I_ ever made."

"I wish you would not talk about that."

"About Victor or about the other thing?"

"The other thing."

I shrugged saying, "You know what I am, Jim. You know what I do for a living. If you don't like hearing about it, then why do you come to visit?"

"I just wanted to talk to someone."

"Well, we're talking, aren't we? So how did you get out of the scrape?"

"He let Harvey, Barbara and me go," Jim admitted.

"Wow, he let you go for a _second_ time."

"Yeah, don't remind me." He drank the rest of his second glass, rolling his tongue over his teeth.

He then asked, "Did you worry?"

I chuckled, "What kind of question is that?"

"One that you answer 'yes' or 'no' to," Jim replied seriously.

"Yes. I worried about you. How could I not? You're my brother….my big, bull-headed, sometimes idiotic brother."

Jim leaned forward, arms crossed on the table, eyes narrowed. After some time passed, his expression softened, like whatever he wanted to say could wait another day. He sat back in his chair, fingers rolling the empty glass between his fingers.

I placed the package of popcorn in the microwave, hitting a few buttons, and listened to the machine hum for a few minutes before taking it out. I poured it into two bowls, placing one in front of Jim, who thanked me with a small smile before he was tossed back into his reverie.

I poured him yet another glass (his third one), watching him look at me with tired eyes.

It got me thinking of how many times had I seen him look this way after a bad case gone awry.

"You said you wanted to talk to someone. You came here. So, I'm assuming you don't feel like you can talk to your partner or Barbara about whatever it is that's on your mind."

Jim smiled at me, a thin smile like he was humored. But he knew I was right. After a moment, he spoke.

"Do you remember when I came home from the war?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "You had on your Army uniform, spiffy hat—looked like a decorated soldier, and a proud son. How can I forget?"

"Everyone wanted to talk about the war—that's all _anyone_ wanted to talk about," Jim muttered, tiredly shaking his head (the wine was getting to him, apparently). "Dad, Uncle Frank, friends—all of them. It was like I couldn't get away from it, from the battlefield or coming home."

"Yes, I remember."

"But not you."

"Right. If I remember correctly, when I saw you, I said 'how's it hanging'." I chortled humorously. "You grinned so wide, I thought your face would get stuck that way— it was kinda creepy."

"You never asked about who I killed or why it needed to be done," Jim continued quietly. "You were just happy to see me again, happy that I survived."

"Yep."

"Then I went into training to become a cop. Dad, Uncle Frank—they were kind of annoyed by that, weren't they?"

"They weren't annoyed. They were proud of you, bud. But you traded one war for another," I said, tossing my hand to the air.

Jim tilted his head to side, saying, "You never once thought that I would fail the police academy, not even when I was failing math."

"Eh—Academics were never your strongest suit. At least, it's not a natural talent."

"And now, here we are," sighed Jim, gesturing to the apartment in a general way.

"If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you're trying to tell me something." I said, pointing at him. "I mean, this is all good and everything, reminiscing and nostalgia of the 'good old days', but there's something else."

Jim leaned forward. He placed his hands over my own, and I gave him a look.

He wasn't the sentimental type—in fact, he tried to be anything but that.

"I talked to you about what happened—the war and all the graphic details."

"Mm-hmm."

"And you never winced at my stories, never told me to stop talking," Jim said, as though he was just in awe about that. "Dad said he understood: The war of it all, but I doubt he ever truly did. The political side of it, the lawyer side of it, sure."

He kissed the back of my hand.

"Most days, I _hate_ that you've allied yourself with crooks, and are involved with filth like Maroni," said Jim honestly. "But there are times like these…. after Zsasz destroys the GCPD…. after everything that's happened with Barbara and Falcone. I know I can come to you to talk."

"Yep."

"I know you won't tell me to leave when times get tough."

I smiled saying, "What are siblings for, huh?"

Jim grinned. It was odd seeing him smile these days. He ate another handful of popcorn.

"I will admit though," I said pointedly. "You've become a whole different kind of insufferable since you became a detective."

Jim laughed aloud, and I laughed too. Good times, indeed.

* * *

**Chapter 21: I Shot An Old Lady**

Oswald wrapped a little box in a canary-yellow ribbon as two of Maroni's old thugs who had recently been placed in Oswald's employ, gathered their weapons, adding a few more rounds before hitting the road. I leaned against the frame of his office door.

"Don't look at me like that," Oswald said with his back to me.

"Look at you like what?" I questioned, uncrossing my arms.

"I can feel your glare." He straightened and turned to look at me, noting my facial expression and he pointed at me: "That look."

"Well, forgive me if I seem a _little_ suspicious."

"You have nothing to worry about, honey."

"Maroni wants to send you to Fish Mooney's place to discuss terms of business, a woman whose temper resembles something of a very hairy scorpion." I stated with forced calm. "Why would I worry?"

Oswald leaned his backside against his desk, fingers drumming the edges. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk, implying for me to take a seat. I did so, lifting one leg over the other and crossing my arms over my chest.

"You don't happen to have a _grenade_ in that box, do you?" I questioned.

"Of course not. It's a gift."

"For her, yes, but why?"

"A friendly gesture."

"If it's chocolate, I hope it's laced with poison."

"It is not," said Oswald.

"'No' it isn't chocolate, or 'no' it's not poisonous?" I retorted coolly.

Oswald smiled: "No to both."

"Too bad the Mayor ordered for the rest of the Viper crap to be disposed. Wouldn't mind watching Fish taking it and then becoming a pile of crushed bones and jelly."

He approached me, his hands holding either arm of my chair. His face was only centimeters from mine, so close that if I leaned forward a millimeter, we would kiss.

"As much as I love your vivid and hostile imagination, my sweet Dove, we must move forward," Oswald uttered softly. "We are going to pay Miss Mooney a visit, and discuss terms between our two benefactors. During that time, you will _not_ attack her" (I made a scathing noise) "unless _I_ give the word."

His lips kissed my own, lingering to graze my bottom lip.

"Let me get this straight," I said quietly. "You want to give Fish a gift and have a nice chat about territory while _I_ want to scratch the bitch's eyes out and call us even. And you're saying you don't want me to?"

He grinned, having a laugh.

"I like your passion, darling. It's one of the reasons I grow to love you more every day." Oswald stated, straightening and leaning against the desk again. "But violence wouldn't be in our best interests, not for the moment. We must proceed with a little grace, hm?"

"'Grace' isn't in my vocabulary," I noted, getting to my feet.

I started to leave but Oswald caught my hand and pulled me back unceremoniously. My body collided into his. He held me steadfast, and I felt my insides warm as he looked at me sternly. He held my wrists, placing them over his chest while his other hand caressed my jaw.

"I need you to play nice. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," I answered.

"That's my girl," Oswald drawled.

He nuzzled my neck, and I smiled at the sweet gesture.

As I got out of the car, I smoothed down my dress. For the special evening as it was all elegance when it concerned Mooney, I'd taken to wearing a black cocktail dress. Semi-casual, anyway. Tomas, the dark-eyed, black-haired Italian youth, held out his hand for me to take. Feeling uber-classy, I did so and he smiled politely.

Tomas had become something of a body guard just as Gabe had become Oswald's constant. It certainly made me feel important, being escorted by one of Frankie Carbone's pals since Oswald had taken his place the moment the man had been killed.

Oswald spoke in a hushed voice to Gabe and Tomas while I headed them off, stepping through the doors of Mooney's pride and joy.

The club itself hadn't changed. The red light glowed from all around the vicinity; once upon a dream, it felt like a warm hue, a campfire welcoming friendship. That was before Fish carved her club's symbol onto my collar bone and threw me out. It was barely visible from behind the black strap of my dress, but the hatred born had yet to leave—clearly.

There was a small musical number happening on stage, an old woman who was singing a lovely aria. I admired the singer for what she was, a small-bit performance piece in a spectral of money and disarray. The music itself was glorious; I nearly forgot the reason for being here until I heard a familiar voice creeping in.

_"I thought I told you to never come back."_

I smiled sarcastically, turning slowly to see Fish standing before me—in all of her radiant glory.

"Well, I just could _not_ stay away." I said with a delightful twist of a smile. "This was once my home, you know."

A subtle glint of spite didn't go unnoticed as her eyes bore down into mine. She approached me with the soft clicking of her golden stilettos, eyes narrowed, eyelashes thick with mascara and eyelids shimmering with white glitter. For a few seconds, she took me in. She reached out and I immediately pulled back.

" _That_ looked like it hurt," Fish drawled, pointing at the white scar.

"Well, it did." I returned, crossing my arms.

"Doesn't look like I cut deep enough. Perhaps I should make another?"

"You could, but then I would have to carve something into _you_."

"Bite me."

"I did once already," I reminded cattily. "But I'll be more than happy to do it again."

I took one step towards her and like a magician, Butch Gilzean popped up between us. He seemed ready to sic himself on me, but the music on the stage died as a new threat appeared behind me. Fish laid eyes on Oswald and suddenly, she smiled.

Oswald looked at me suspiciously, the tension in the room was heavier than Butch's breathing.

"Let's be civil, shall we?" He mediated, glancing between Fish Mooney and myself.

I hissed but retracted my claws. Fish appeared to do the same as she muttered something to Butch, who chuckled at whatever she had to say. They turned to walk to the middle of the club, out in the open. Oswald touched my shoulder as I continued to glare after them.

He whispered, "Did you listen to a single thing I said back at the office?"

"She came up to _me_ ," I retorted, grinding my teeth. "If she hadn't, I would have been very well-behaved."

Oswald rolled his eyes, saying, "Will you _please_ play nice from now on, dear?"

"I _was_ playing nice." I whispered harshly. "But she isn't exactly civil herself, _Oz_!"

"Just mind me, all right?"

" _Minding_." I chirped, holding up my hands in surrender.

Oswald sat down at the circular table. Fish sat across from him. I stood behind Oswald, arms crossed, my fingernails digging into my arms to keep myself from ripping Fish apart.

This woman was snide and arrogant, her simpering smile just grating on my nerves. Her smooth talking was just a silhouette of just how vindictive she could be. Sending her thugs to my apartment to get Barbara had only been a pre-text prior to Butch and his friends beating the hell out of me; regardless that I had stepped to the plate to protect Barbara, they had planned on beating me up no matter what I had done. Fish was civil—for now—but the faux nicety was enough to make me want to kick her in the shins.

_One wrong move, Bitch. Give me anything and I will have you drinking your next meal through a fucking straw._

Three men stood behind her. Gabe and Tomas stood behind me. I remained on Oswald's right side, watching (or rather glaring daggers) at Fish.

She smiled in my direction, saying, "You look well, Sylvia."

"Don't talk to me."

"That's not very nice." Fish chided as though I was a child.

"Oh, you want 'nice'?" I returned. "I'll give you 'nice'. May I _please_ insert a very sharp object into your body? Preferably, several times?"

Fish chuckled, "Are you politely asking if you can stab me?"

Oswald interjected, "She doesn't mean that."

"I might."

" _Sylvia_ …." Oswald warned, looking at me.

I sighed deeply, rolling my eyes.

I held my hands up again and said in a honey-sweet voice to Fish, "Deepest apologies, Miss Mooney. I truly _don't_ want to cut off your face and feed it to your chimpanzees."

Her men standing behind her frowned at me while Fish grinned widely saying, "You haven't changed in the slightest, have you?"

"Not one goddamn bit." I reassured nicely.

"Last warning." Oswald said sternly, glancing back at me.

I shrugged and crossed my arms again, but that didn't stop me from glaring once more at Fish, who looked at Oswald pointedly.

"She's every bit like her brother, isn't she?"

"You have _no_ idea," Oswald muttered, closing his eyes only a second for a prayer of patience. He smiled apologetically, and placed the yellow box on the table, scooting it towards her.

Fish looked at it blankly and said in the most sarcastic tone possible, "You shouldn't have."

"I wanted to make a gesture." Oswald said innocently. "I was hoping that in time, we could become friends."

"Friends?" She questioned apathetically before she suddenly smiled: "Hmm. Why not? What's done is done, right?"

"I am so glad you feel that way. Don Maroni wants us to clarify terms."

"Well, it's business as usual. Maroni still has his drugs, his unions. He pays tariffs for the ports. If he needs favors from the cops or the mayor, Don Falcone will consider it. And of course, the families still share Arkham."

"And there's not to be any blood spilled on either side. Not a drop."

"Mm. Maybe justa _drop_ ," She suggested half-joking, laughing.

Oswald laughed as well, wagging his finger at her, "Tsk-tsk-tsk."

Fish smiled widely.

"Look at you," She mused. "Timothy." She looked at and referred to the bearded lad standing on her left. "Did you know this fellow here used to have your job. Carried my umbrella, and thought it an honor. Now look at him…. has a seat at the table."

"Things change, eh?" Oswald said, obviously humored. "What can I say. I've been blessed."

"Perhaps I should open your gift."

She began to unravel the ribbon, lifting the top. Glistening under the lights was a golden broach, accompanied by a sharp needle that could in itself be used as a weapon.

"Oh, my goodness, that is beautiful," Fish breathed. "Now I feel awful. I didn't get you anything."

Oswald smiled.

"Thank you," Fish said sincerely.

And then _stab!_

I admit that a few unsightly curse words left my mouth when the pin punctured the middle of Oswald's hand and had it not been for Gabe's hand that grabbed my elbow, I would have hopped over the table and stabbed the bitch myself. Tomas pulled out his gun with the same thought in mind, but Oswald held up his free hand, giving the nonverbal order for the rest of us to stand down.

Oswald had an _amazing_ amount of pain tolerance as he didn't even make a sound.

Fish withdrew the pin, sliding its pointed edge between her lips, tasting the blood.

"Mm…. _Sweet_."

" _That_ was uncalled for," Oswald said with forced calm.

"I brought you into my family and I treated you like a son!" She snapped, eyes glaring. "And you betrayed me."

"For which I suffered!"

"Not badly enough. When I order some fool killed, I _expect_ him to stay that way!"

Oswald seethed, "Your boss, Don Falcone, expressly said—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, he wants peace! That's the only reason your sorry ass is still alive and if I were you, I would _pray_ for his good health."

"Oh, I do," Oswald said, laughing a little. "I do."

"Good," Fish drawled. "Because remember…. things change."

"Convey my respects to _your_ Don."

"Likewise. Peace… 'friend'."

Oswald stood, and made his way out the door to leave. When Gabe finally let me go, I had half a mind to slit her throat. Fish and I glared each other down.

" ** _Sylvia_**!" Oswald called as he was half-way out the door.

"You better go, little girl. Your _master_ 's calling," cooed Fish, grinning maliciously.

I looked at Tomas.

He looked at me expectantly, ready to obey whatever order I bestowed upon him.

"Give me your gun." I ordered.

He held it out to me immediately.

"You can't—" Fish began.

"Shut up—I'm not killing you." I reassured.

I cocked it, then aimed it at the entertainment on stage, and pulled the trigger. The old woman, who had been singing a beautiful song with the most talented voice I'd ever heard, fell down on the wooden tile, hands on her thigh, which began bleeding out at an alarming rate.

By that time, Oswald was already out the door but I heard him scream my name from the car, "SYLVIA!"

"COMING!" I hollered back.

I handed Tomas the gun. He pocketed it, looking a little fearful of me as I smiled kindly at Fish.

"Eye for an eye, Miss Mooney," I told her coolly. "If you draw blood, so will I."

"Why you…." Fish growled.

She started toward me, but Tomas stood between us, gun cocked and ready to defend.

With a tongue-in-cheek smile, I walked out of the club. I stepped out in the air, feeling less suffocated, getting into the passenger seat beside Oswald.

"Why did it take you so long?" He huffed.

"I shot the old lady on stage," I said simply, closing my door.

He blinked: "Why the hell did you do that?"

"You forbade me to hurt Fish. And someone had to get hurt for what she did to you, so I had no choice, really."

Oswald looked at me as though too many acorns had fallen off the tree. I leaned forward, looking between Tomas and Gabe and asked if they had any gauze with them. Tomas reached into the glove box, rummaged through it, and handed me a full first-aid kit.

"You're awesome, Tom," I said happily.

He grinned at my praise.

"Take us back to my apartment," I instructed.

Gabe glanced at Oswald for his approval. Oswald waved at him to do what he was told with his good hand while I took the injured one and placed it on my lap.

"What are you doing?" Oswald asked, annoyed.

"Don't worry about it."

I poured rubbing alcohol over his hand, dampening my dress, and he hissed at me. But he didn't pull his hand away. As Gabe drove us to the apartment, I rubbed ointment over the puncture and bandaged his hand with tape and gauze. Oswald looked at me irritably.

"You don't have to do that. I'm more than capable…."

"I know you are." I returned softly.

He said in a slightly annoyed voice, "Sometimes I can't tell if you're an angry guard dog, my girlfriend, or my mother."

I patted his wrist, saying, "Good as new."

The brakes squeaked as the car came to a halt in front of my apartment. I stepped out of the car, rounding it and opened Oswald's door. He stepped out. I smiled at Gabe and Tomas, gave them a hundred dollars each so they could hit the bar in town, and asked them to leave.

Oswald followed me wordlessly, more curious than anything. I opened the front door; he followed in after me, choosing to sit on the couch while I rummaged through the kitchen. After ten minutes, I came back and placed a cup of hot chocolate in front of him.

"I am not a child," Oswald told me. "I do not need hot chocolate."

"Of course, you don't 'need' it. That's all the more reason to drink it."

"I am not drinking this."

About thirty minutes later, he was in a black robe, sitting on the couch with the cup in his non-injured hand, trying to fish out the little marshmallows with a spoon so as to eat them first before drinking the rest of it.

Oswald looked at me, showing me his empty cup.

"Do you have more?" He asked.

"Plenty." I answered, taking it and heading back to the kitchen.

I came back with a fresh cup, sitting down. Taking the remote from the coffee table, I flipped through the channels briskly, watching the news. Oswald snuggled up to me, his face nuzzled between my shoulder and neck.

"Perhaps you were right," Oswald said softly.

"About?"

"I should have definitely given her poisonous chocolates," He grumbled.

"Told you." I sang.

* * *

**Chapter 22: What Are Siblings For**

Author's Note: I enjoy writing Oswald & Sylvia scenes but writing chapters with Jim and Sylvia's sibling bond is almost just as fun! (Almost.) Hope you enjoy!

Oswald went to visit his mother to give her the gift that Fish had 'politely' declined. While he did that, I went ahead to the GCPD. Knowing the officers had sacrificed their own honor and left my brother like a lamb to slaughter for Zsasz, I had a hard time letting it go. After all, Jim and Oswald were my only family. I was going to give them a piece of my mind.

As a pre-text, I had made cookies. Walking into the station, I was normally greeted by happy souls who were ready to hug me and shower me with compliments about my hair and fashion but this time, I noticed that a _lot_ of them were going out of their way _not_ to notice me. Their shame was eating away at them, knowing they'd left _my_ brother for dead.

I dropped by Alvarez' desk as he was normally the point man for knowing where Jim was when I couldn't find Harvey Bullock. He looked up, saw that it was me, and smiled uneasily.

"Hey, Sylvia."

"Hey, yourself." I greeted coolly. "Do you know where Jim is?"

He pointed his eyes up at the balcony where I noticed Jim was seated, perusing some work files. On my way up the stairs, I met the happy Forensic, Edward Nygma. He always wore a lab jacket, glasses, and was always smiling. He had a knack for puzzles. While Jim and Harvey said he could be annoying, I didn't mind it so much.

Instantly, he recognized me.

"Miss Gordon!" He gushed.

"How're you doing, Mr. Nygma?"

I held out the box of cookies, offering him one.

"Oh, no thanks. I just had a blueberry muffin," said Nygma gratefully, patting his hand on his stomach.

"Well, later then."

He grinned widely and suddenly asked, "Do you like riddles?"

"I like them enough."

"Oh good! I have one—well, several—if you want to give it a go, but you probably don't…."

"Sure. Give me one." I said, holding my hand out to him.

He looked surprised, but happy.

"What is harder to catch the faster you run?"

"Your breath."

He grinned even wider. (I honestly did _not_ think that was possible.)

"Kudos for getting that right," Nygma said, chuckling. "You'd be _amazed_ how many people here don't get any of them." He looked at everyone before rolling his eyes, turning back to me.

"I have one for you." I offered congenially with a smile. "But for someone like you though, I doubt it will be a challenge."

Nygma crossed his arms, looking smug now that I complimented his intelligence: "Fire away."

"If someone robbed you in the shower," I said smoothly, "what would you be?"

Nygma took a moment, cracked another grin and said, "An eye _wet_ ness!"

"Didn't think I would stump a guy like you!"

_"Vee?"_

Nygma and I looked up to see Jim standing over the balcony, leaning forward, and watching with an odd expression on his face as he watched us mingle. I smiled apologetically at Nygma, who shook his hands as he stepped to the side on the stair case, allowing me to go on ahead. I met Jim on the balcony; he turned to me curiously.

He said wearily, "I hope he wasn't bothering you."

"How could he?" I said, shrugging my shoulders. "Seems like a nice guy over all. Harmless. Wicked good at puzzles, ain't he?"

"Yep," sighed Harvey as he joined us, "That's why he's our Forensic guy. Those riddles, though…. _eesh_."

I smiled kindly, "I like riddles."

"You'd be the only one," said Harvey gruffly.

I gave him a look then, seeing Jim just as grumpy, I said pointedly, "What the hell is wrong with _you_ two?"

Jim sat down, shaking his head tiredly.

"Are those cookies?" Harvey asked, eyebrows rising.

He moved past Jim and took the box from my hands, sitting them on his desk before eating two at a time.

Taking another, Harvey said, "If this doesn't make a man feel better, I don't know **what** will."

"What about having sex on a nudist beach?" I suggested.

Harvey cracked a grin, looking at Jim saying, "She certainly knows her way to a man's heart, doesn't she, Jimbo?"

Meanwhile, Jim looked at me uncomfortably. No doubt he had the unwelcome image of Oswald and me on a beach, making love. I pulled up a chair, sitting in front of my dear old brother.

"You're grumpier than usual. Having a bad start on a case?"

"Should we tell her?" Jim asked, looking past me to his partner.

"I doubt we should," Harvey mused, propping his feet on the desk, crossing his ankles. "But then again, any insight would be a welcome relief. Are these chocolate chip?"

"Chocolate chip and white macadamia nut," I answered. "Tell me _what_?"

"Oh, god, send me to heaven." Harvey sighed, closing his eyes as he let the savory goodness wash over him. "I'm going to get some milk. Want any, Jimbo?"

"No, I'm fine." He said briskly.

Harvey left briefly, leaving Jim and me alone—or as alone as two people could be in a police station. I leaned back in my chair, observing Jim's increasingly grumpy attitude. Normally, he was all about conversation, but now, he seemed a little pissed off.

"What's wrong?"

"Police business."

"That's never stopped you from talking to me before."

Jim gave me a look, but I only returned it with a knowing smile. Jim glanced at the other cops around him, but ultimately, it was like he didn't give a shit if I knew what they were working on anymore. He leaned forward.

"Richard Sionis."

"Am I supposed to know that name?"

"No…. but it wouldn't surprise me if you did. He's in finances, manages Sionis investments. And he's been staging fights for employee candidates. Our last suspect crapped out. Took a lot of money from Sionis to keep his mouth shut—lawyer jumped in before we could get a signed confession."

"So, find out where he's staging the fights."

"We're trying. Harvey's running the search."

"Well, if you ask me…."

"I didn't."

"Then why are you telling me this stuff if you don't want my opinion?"

Jim made a low guttural growl as he said in the same mitigated frustration, "None of them will _help_ me, Vee."

"Because you're on their wall of shame," I reminded. "If you want though, I'll help you."

"You're a civilian."

"I'm also your sister."

"That doesn't make you an exception."

"But it _does_ give you an extra hand."

Harvey came back with two sheets of paper and a glass of milk, setting the latter down on the desk as he appeared preoccupied. He put on his coat.

Harvey said irritably, "Take a look at this—Sionis owns half of Gotham."

"This Sionis sounds like a snob," I noted.

Harvey gulped down the milk, leaving the remnants of the evidence along his mustache. He licked his lips, rubbed face with his hand, and looked at me.

"You're not wrong," He said, smiling ironically at me. "I've got all the places, Jimbo—but there are a lot of 'em."

"We'll split up," said Jim, getting to his feet and putting on his own coat. "We'll focus on the buildings that are abandoned, or under construction first. This son-of-a-bitch is not getting away."

"I'll say one thing, he has _your_ number." Harvey said, ignoring my presence and looking at Jim.

Jim demanded, "What are you talking about?"

"Sionis. You may not have put down Cobblepot, Jimmy boy," said Harvey, as he glanced at me in reference to Oswald. "But you've got a demon in you. You can call yourself a soldier, but all this fighting Falcone, fighting other cops, you _love_ it. So, when you find something that seems remotely possible, you call me."

Harvey strode past him. I raised my eyebrows, looking after him, then turned to Jim who was about to say something but then his phone started ringing. He glanced at the Caller ID before answering it.

"Barbara? Is everything all right?" He asked. She spoke some on the other line, but he interrupted: "Can we talk later? I'm kind of in the middle of something."

Whether the conversation was finished or not, he hung up.

"Wow, that was kind of rude," I said coolly.

Jim looked at me for a long moment, and I wondered if he was going to hit me. Then, without further ado, he handed me a sheet of listed buildings.

"What…?"

"You said you wanted to help, didn't you?"

He started walking. Then he briefly turned to me and said, "Aren't you coming?"

"What's changed _your_ mind so quickly?" I asked as I followed him.

"Harvey isn't in a hurry to find this guy, and I don't trust these people"—Jim referred to the other cops that had left him for Zsasz— "And you're pretty capable."

He stopped at the front door.

"Which reminds me…." Jim continued. He put his hand inside his jacket and handed me a gun. "This is my spare."

I smiled happily.

"You'll help me, won't you?" Jim asked—his voice almost sounded desperate.

"What kind of sister would I be if I let you go it alone?"

Bitterly, he smiled at the sentiment as we both headed out of the police station.

Heading to an abandoned building on the heels of my brother hadn't been the endgame I was looking for when I'd gone to the police station to give the other cops a piece of my mind. But on the whole, I had to say that Jim letting me tag along was one of the most endearing moments ever. He only took my attire into consideration when we stepped out of the car and he noticed I was wearing a knee-length dress and heels. I guess his detective skills weren't sharp until they were forced to realize the gravity of the situation that I was very much unprepared in the context of apparel.

"Will you be all right in those?" Jim asked, glancing at my stilettos.

"I can keep up. This isn't my first manhunt."

"For once, I'm happy to know that."

We walked carefully but quickly into the building, minding our surroundings. I was on high-alert, but damn, did it feel good. The rush of adrenaline spiking through my fingertips, the fast thumping of my heart—I could feel it in my head, even! I was a few steps behind Jim as we turned a corner; he held out his hand in front of me, stopping me in my tracks.

I whispered, " _What?"_

He looked at me: "Stay here."

" _The fuck I will_ ," I hissed. "Dim lighting, unnatural silence—that's a perfect setting for an ambush, Jim."

"It was a mistake. Bringing you here…. I don't know what I was thinking…."

"Don't get cold feet on me now. You gave me your _gun_. Might as well see this through."

Jim grimaced, regretting every life decision that brought us to this moment.

"Just wait for me." He cautioned. "Wait for my signal."

"What's your signal?"

"It'll sound like screaming."

I blinked.

"Did you just make a _joke_?" I asked incredulously.

"I was half-joking."

"Oh, is that what that was?"

"Just trying to set the mood."

"And you say _I'm_ the one with the dark sense of humor," I muttered, shaking my head.

"Just shut up and wait for my signal, okay?" Jim hissed.

"Again— _Rude_. How does Barbara even deal with you?" I returned sarcastically.

"Just stay put."

"So protective."

"What are siblings for," Jim grumbled.

I rolled my eyes and he slowly headed around the corner while I pushed my back against the wall, head straight forward, listening for anything that sounded remotely like trouble. I held the gun in my hands, tightly, my knuckles turning white.

_Any moment…._

"G.C.P.D!" Jim said aloud. "Is anyone else here?"

Then _whack_!

I winced, leaning further back against the wall, away from the corner. That wasn't screaming. That was something else. I remained quite still for the next ten minutes, thinking for the best but I was expecting the worst.

_He's dead. He's definitely dead. He's dead, dead, dead, dead…._

I bent down on my knees, looking around the corner, everywhere but ahead.

There were cages. _Cages_. Humans inside. They were slowly getting out, looking around and at each other. There was a total of six people, all wearing business suits, all of them wearing masks. Jim was in a chair. I was just ready to head over and kill these motherfuckers before a voice called from the intercom.

"Jim…Jim…. wake up. WAKE UP!"

The sound alone startled me, and Jim woke the hell up. He was on his feet. I rushed over to him. The loud clicking of my stilettos alerted the six people as they turned, looking surprised.

The intercom above chuckled darkly, "Oh, Jim…. you didn't…."

_He can see us._

I looked up and around, the source of the voice hidden in the darkness. There were desks and chairs all around the area, one big clusterfuck. The six men that surrounded were tall, stocky, larger than me. A match between them would fuck me up, big time.

"What…. the…. fuck…." I mumbled, glancing at all of them.

"Sionis," Jim muttered, glaring at all of them.

"Six of you applied for a position at my firm," said Sionis through the intercom. "I explained, then, you can use any weapon here at your disposal. The last man standing gets the job."

"Seriously, what the fuck…."

"However," Sionis continued. "Tonight, is special. You see the _man_ without the mask?"

I glanced at Jim.

"Whoever kills him is the victor."

"You have to get out of here, Sylvia!" Jim urged.

"As for the woman…." Sionis mused. "Do what you want with her."

"Oh, for fuck—Come on, man!" I shouted at the ceiling. "Are you fucking kidding me!"

"Sylvia, get out." Jim growled.

"By the way," Sionis said from the intercom. "All exits are sealed from the inside."

I grumbled, "Fucking _dick_."

"Listen to me," Jim said carefully to the rest of them. "I'm a cop. So far, none of you have broken any rules."

I cocked the gun, and rose it eye-level with anyone who dared to come near my brother and me.

"Let the games begin," Sionis drawled.

The men started forward.

"Sylvia, get behind me," Jim whispered.

"Fat lot of good _that_ will do, Jimmy. They're _surrounding_ us. And **I** have the fucking gun."

"That won't help…"

"Why the fuck not?"

"It's loaded with blanks."

I looked inside the gun. Sure enough…

"Why the hell did you give me a gun with nothing of value?" I snapped. "You said you trusted me with it."

"I didn't think it—"

"Oh, s _hocker_ , you didn't think. I'm even surprised you became a detective."

"Let's not argue about this now," Jim snapped.

The bell rang, starting the fight.

" _Last chance, **no body move**_!" Jim threatened.

"Oh..." Sionis added. "I'll also throw in a million dollars as a signing bonus."

"Oh crap," Jim sighed.

"Wow, for _that_ amount, I might kill you too." I chuckled darkly, looking at him pointedly.

"That's not even a little bit funny!"

"What— _you_ can make a dark joke but **I** can't? You're a hypocrite."

The men advanced.

"Just so you know," I warned them. "The last man who tried to rape me, I shot him in the face. And this gun isn't full of bullets, but I can use this as a club. See how well you can ride a horse when you got one of these stuck up your prostate, huh!"

They seemed a little hesitant to do anything _but_ kill me now. They all picked up staplers, and three-hole punchers, ready to cause some damage.

"Game plan—what's your game plan?" I asked quickly, dodging a lunging move from one and a swiping move from the other.

Jim kicked one in the gut, saying, "I don't have one."

"How do you _not_ have a game plan!" I spat, glaring at him.

"I didn't expect _this_ when I said that you could come!" Jim snapped, throwing another man over his head.

Kick one in the face, two in the balls.

_That'll keep them down._

Jump on the desk—god _damn_ this thing is wobbly—oh **shit** , he's coming right after me.

**_AH!_ **

The gorilla clucked me on the jaw, throwing me onto the floor. A pair of legs straddled my waist. I threw my hands at any body part I could find, doing my best not so much to escape as I did to maim. He was laughing above me—I don't know who—but he was laughing, throwing spittle on my face.

Jim threw a man over the desk; a cry of pain followed, then….

"GET THE HELL OFF HER!"

My captor was lifted off me by the collar of his shirt and shoved into the desk; Jim kicked him in the face, knocking him out. He grabbed my hand, lifting me to my feet.

"Are you okay?"

"Peachy," I panted.

"Good, now _help_ me, would you!" Jim said, just as breathlessly.

"Give me something sharp!" I shouted.

"What happened to using the gun as a club!?"

"Well, pardon _me_ for not holding onto it while this prick tried to grope my ass and strangle me," I snarled, furiously gesturing to the man that had not moved since being thrown into the desk. "Now give me something fucking sharp!"

He grabbed a letter opener—of all things—and tossed it to me. I shoved it into one of the men's eyes and he screamed bloody murder. Jim took on three of them while I dealt with the last one. The last one was of average height, stocky, and his mask had been torn off during the scuffle.

"Come on, baby," he said with a grated voice. He wiggled his fingers for me to come get him.

I took off my stiletto and then hit him over the head with it. After that, I forgo the rest of the fight without shoes. Jim finished kicking one in the ribs and the last got his arm twisted in two places, the latter screaming and crying for his mother. I raised my eyebrows, ultimately impressed with Jim's performance before I heard a loud laugh coming from the darkness.

"I knew you had a killer in you!"

He stepped from a cubicle, wearing a scary, dark looking mask and carrying a samurai sword.

"Sylvia..." Jim breathed.

"I know, I know," I said, getting my heel out of a man's forehead and putting it on. "Stay behind you."

The masked fellow followed my every move. And for the first time since coming here, I felt a little intimidated, and was grateful that Jim was as protective of me as he was. Jim kept his arms open and wide in length, placing distance between the masked figure and myself. Eyes the color of ice stared me down from the toothy mask.

"That sister of yours…. There's a killer in her too, isn't there?" Sionis said, his voice muffled slightly. "She's a bit of fire…."

"You don't know anything about her." Jim spat.

"But does _she_ know about _you_?" Sionis said, tapping his sword on the desk and pointing it towards him.

I started slipping to the side, stepping back a little at a time.

"James…." I whispered.

Sionis chuckled darkly, deeper. He started forward carefully, like a tiger analyzing his prey, on the ready to attack.

"Sylvia," Jim said carefully. "Move."

"Jim...!"

"Get as far from him as possible!" He shouted.

"But—"

Sionis swung his sword at Jim, who ducked in time and it cut a chair in two.

"Oop, got it! I'm going!" I called, getting literally as far from the guy as I could.

I could throw and take a punch as great as the next guy, but in this scenario, Jim was the expert fighter.

The sword fights were amazing, to say the least. Heavy, stocky swings on Sionis' behalf were met with Jim's instinctive ducks and quick movements. Chairs were broken, punches thrown, leading to the epitome of the fight during which Jim stood on the desk with the same sword pointed down at a disarmed Sionis. The look in Jim's eye—that look— like he might kill him.

"Jim…."

He looked at me.

Whatever he saw, whatever he thought at that moment pulled him out of the trance and he hopped off the desk, looking tired and worn but otherwise, victorious.

A woman called out to the area, "JIM!"

I looked past him to see Capt. Essen and another uniform headed our way. Just as she caught his attention, Sionis rose to his feet to do unto Jim what the latter could not—until, that was, Jim clucked him in the jaw with his fist and Sionis fell to the floor.

He wasn't giving up. He took one more swing.

I kicked him in the nuts; he grunted and made a gagging noise.

"Now, stay down!" I snapped.

Capt. Essen looked at me curiously, surprised that I was there.

"Thank you," said Jim.

"You're welcome…." She returned offhandedly.

"This was fun," I said smartly, smiling at Jim. I patted him on the shoulder. "I'm going to go home and have a heart attack now. See you later."

He took my arm, and I looked at him curiously.

"Thank you, Sylvia. For having my back." Jim said breathlessly.

I shrugged, saying, "What are siblings for?"

**Chapter 23: Sadist, The Friend With Falcone**

A/N: Just as a warning, this chapter gets a little gory and shows Sylvia's more sadistic side! :)

When I came home, my first thought was to lie down on the bed and have my planned heart attack, thanks to the misadventures of helping my brother get rid of Sionis. However, as I opened the bedroom door, I saw a curious sight, one that made me smile. On the made-up bed covers was a dark blue satin dress with a brilliant turquoise trim. Sitting just adjacent to its neckline were snow-white, 3-inch, open-toed heels. Lying on the dress was a single sheet of college-ruled paper, words written in black ink. I touched the dress first, admiring its stellar beauty. The letter was written in Oswald's handwriting:

' _Pet,_

_I had business to take care of before coming home regarding a matter of great importance. I guessed your size and am certain the commodities on the bed will fit you perfectly. You're welcome to join me at the following address as I am sure you will enjoy what the occasion has to offer._

_If you decide to come, wear the dress and stilettos._

_I have dinner reservations._

_Love,_

_Oswald'_

At the bottom, the address mentioned was written out.

A letter like that could leave a girl smiling. Mine stretched from ear-to-ear.

I set the letter down and looked at the dress and heels. Did I really need to think twice?

After showering, I slipped on black stockings, and tried on the dress. As he had guessed, the dress fit close to perfection. The hem rose just above my kneecaps, and conformed to my figure like it was made out of the finest material, and the neckline slid off the shoulders a bit. The color of it alone brought out the redness of my hair and the blue of my eyes. With the addition of winged eyeliner and mascara, I felt incredibly sexy.

Driving there wasn't the hard part. It was actually finding the warehouse in which he was located that proved more of a difficulty, which was probably the only reason Oswald had bothered to write out the address; no person who came across the letter accidentally would have easily located his whereabouts.

I parked the car more than a few feet away from it and strolled through the double doors. The white light of the sun contrasted greatly with the dim lighting inside, but it didn't take my eyes long to adjust, seeing the fine silhouette of Oswald sitting at a steel metal table with his back facing me. I looked around, curious to my surroundings.

"Oz?"

Having been preoccupied with something, Oswald startled shortly, craning his neck to see me. Seeing me in the dress he'd picked out just for me, his lips parted in fascination as he stood. Then he smiled widely.

"What do you think?" I asked, spinning around.

"It looks a lot better on you than it did on the mannequin," Oswald noted breathlessly.

I kissed his cheek: "Thank you for the rose, and the letter. It was very romantic."

Beaming at my compliment, he said with a mischievous smile, "It's only a small detail of the night I have planned."

"I have no doubt about that. Does that include the part about 'business'?"

And just as we were talking, two bearded men with oily, slicked black hair came staggering inside the building on either side of a fearful, wide-eyed man who looked all too familiar.

"Is that Timothy?" Oswald said happily.

The two men stopped in place, holding a struggling, helpless man…. Fish's newest Umbrella Boy.

Timothy looked at me before looking at Oswald fearfully as he approached him.

"We met at Fish Mooney's, hm?" Oswald said, holding up his left hand indicatively where Fish had notably stabbed him. "I'm the fellow who used to have your job. I was hoping to ask you a few questions."

"Please," Timothy began. "I don't know anything—"

"Shhhhhhh!" Oswald interrupted.

Timothy looked extra fearful.

"There will be time for that," He reassured. "But…. first things first."

He stepped to the side and sat down in the same chair, holding a knife and apple. I looked at him curiously for only a moment before the two men who'd brought him inside the warehouse started beating him up. The first punch thrown had me staring obliviously.

Then I glanced at Oswald, who grinned.

"I know how much you wanted to hurt Fish," He said sincerely, eyes reflecting the same emotion. "So, I thought you'd enjoy the opportunity. You're more than welcome to join in with them."

"They seem to be doing fine without me," I noted, watching the two men beat down on poor Timothy. "It's not him that I want anyway."

"Go _on_ ," Oswald encouraged, slicing the apple vertically. "Tonight, it's all about you. Just don't kill him."

"Well, where's the fun in _that_?" I asked, crossing my arms as I watched the two men kick Timothy in the sides.

He was flailing about, arms up in any direction to block them. I tilted my head, noticing that this man had no sense of pain tolerance what so ever. His nose was bleeding, and there was a certain grunt he would make when the boys kicked him in the gut. I looked at Oswald, who watched me eagerly.

"You want to watch me hit a guy?"

"What I want is to see you happy," Oswald insisted, gesturing his knife to Timothy.

"Well, if you want to see me happy, you'll spank my ass with a riding crop and then fuck me until I can't walk anymore," I responded coolly, rolling my shoulders back.

Oswald's eyebrows raised: interest, piqued.

"There's no filter with you, is there?" He said ironically. But there was no hiding the dangerous little glimmer in his eye at the thought of my casual suggestion.

"You know me. I know what I want."

Oswald grinned broadly, knowing that to be correct. I was direct, straightforward—and he liked it that way. There was no need for guesswork.

"Please!" Timothy grunted—Oswald and I looked at him— "I don't" (he was punched in the face) "know anything!"

"Well, _that's_ a lie if I didn't know one," I sighed, shaking my head.

I stepped forward. Oswald's eyes brightened when I did, seeing my initiative take hold.

The men glanced behind at me, curious as I approached Timothy, who was on the ground, holding his stomach. They stepped aside, anticipating. Seeing the man on the ground didn't pull on my heart strings. Instead, I sought to hurt him. He was a poor substitute for Fish, a pitiful creature, someone who would likely be cast dead in the river without so much as a flag on the police's radar.

I placed my stiletto on his shoulder and rolled him on his back.

"How does it feel now?" I asked quietly. "Is working for Mooney all that it's cracked up to be?"

"I don't…." He began.

I kicked him in the face. He let out of a hard groan, bringing his hands to his face, drool and blood slowly pooling out of the corner of his mouth. He whimpered like a bitch, shying away from me.

I looked at the two men working for Oswald.

"Hold him down," I ordered.

They glanced at each other, turning to Oswald curiously.

"You heard her!" Oswald said, gesturing impatiently to them.

They glanced at each other one more time before shrugging their shoulders carelessly and lifting him up in a seated position.

"I said _hold him **down**_ , not sit him upright!" I snapped.

They quickly corrected the issue. I heard Oswald snicker behind me.

Timothy looked up at me, eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar from what might come. I placed my stiletto back on his shoulder, slowly pressing my heel through the soft spot between it and his chest. He bit his lip, breaking the skin until he was bleeding. I could feel the wicked grin creasing my lips as he started crying, begging me to stop as my heel dug deeper into the soft muscle. One could feel mercy, remorse—I felt a giggle rising from my stomach, to my chest, and it escaped my mouth.

It then occurred to me that I liked causing this man pain.

I lifted my heel when he started whimpering, and he sighed in relief.

"Poor baby Timmy," I cooed.

Crouching down, I straddled his stomach, smirking down at him. The two minions glanced awkwardly at Oswald, who ignored them; his eyes were set on me.

I lowered my face an inch from his, and breathed on his face: "Do you _like_ working for Fish?"

"Yes, I mean, n-no," Timothy answered quickly, fumbling in his brain for an answer that would best appease me.

"Well, which is it? Is it 'yes' or 'no'?"

"I…. please…."

"Am I making you nervous?"

"Yes."

"Is it because I'm hurting you or is it something much _harder_ to explain?"

To prove a point, I placed my knee between his legs. Ever so slightly, I felt the semi-erection through his pants. No wonder why he liked working for Fish. Having a boss lady might as well had been a high point in this man's career—from the feel of it, things were certainly looking up.

I leaned forward and placed my lips gently against his ear.

"Don't worry, Timmy boy. I'll keep your dirty little secret." I whispered.

I stood to my feet, taking care to step on his fingers as I stepped aside and let the men continue beating him. Oswald had been watching me, his apple and knife held loosely in his hands and resting on his lap. His lips were parted in awe and his aquamarine eyes were looking at me with newfound fascination. I stood in front of him, bending at the waist as I kissed his cheek.

"You're right," I said, "this _is_ fun."

He smiled at my approval.

"Then why did you stop?" Oswald asked.

I ran my hands down the emerald green of his vest, and straightened his tie as he cut another slice of apple with the knife.

"This is fun and everything, don't get me wrong. But I want to be the one to kill him," I said quietly, lowering my voice to seductive tones.

"So vindictive," Oswald mused.

I covered my hand over his that held the knife and the sliced piece of fruit. I lifted it and licked the knife, taking the fruit in my mouth. A dangerous glint of lust flickered in the shine of his eyes as I winked at him, and sat on the table, watching the two men beat the shit out of Timothy.

With the apple eaten and tossed in the trash can, Oswald's hands were free. He sat in the chair directly across from me as I hopped onto the edge of the table. His hands stroked my calves, his fingertips ghosting over my stockings.

"I thought you would have been here earlier," Oswald mentioned offhandedly.

"I was preoccupied," I answered honestly.

"With?"

"The usual."

"Your brother?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And, how is he?" Oswald asked, slowly taking off my stilettos and placing them at the foot of his chair.

He gently massaged my right foot, fingers pressing the right spots—he didn't tickle, which was a plus.

In the background of our conversation, the men were taking turns in seeing just how hard they could hit the new umbrella boy. The latter had no pain tolerance but he certainly had endurance.

"Happy, now. Richard Sionis had his ass handed to him today," I said smoothly, grinning. "He was staging fights in abandoned buildings—like interviews. He and I took him down together."

Oswald looked at me reproachfully.

"You went alone?" He asked—ah, there's that protective side again.

"No. I was with my brother, sweetie. I just said that."

Oswald's smile was forceful: "I wish you had told me where you were going."

"If I thought I was in any real danger, I would have. There were six guys in masks," I continued carelessly. "Six versus Jim and me. Not exactly a fair fight. For them, anyway. Jim used to be in the Army, you know—I almost felt sorry for them when they were up against _him_."

"And what about you?" Oswald questioned.

I said evenly, "I did well. Stabbed a guy in the eyeball with a letter opener—kicked Sionis in the balls….it was a good day."

"That is what I like to hear," He sighed, smiling.

He started massaging the other foot. His movements were gentle but firm, getting deep into the tissue but not so deep that it hurt. When his fingers moved to a different part of my foot, they slid, never missing a beat.

 _What a romantic_ , I thought. He truly was.

"You said you made dinner reservations," I said, referring to the letter. "Where is….?"

As I spoke, Timothy groaned. I glanced behind and saw that Timothy was down—like really, really down. The men had beaten the shit out of him and the only thing that didn't seem to be bleeding was his face (which was odd). Oswald looked at the umbrella boy.

"String him up," He ordered.

The men did as they were told, grabbing him and then tying him up to the railings above. The man hung upside down, blood rushing down to the pale forehead so his veins slightly bulged. Oswald ignored the man's whimpers; his attention being solely focused on me.

"You were saying?" Oswald encouraged.

"You said there were dinner reservations…?" I prompted.

"Yes," He said, smiling widely. "But that is a surprise. I know how you _love_ surprises."

"Only good ones," I reminded.

Before Oswald stood to his feet, he kissed the back of mine. He leaned forward and kissed me gingerly on the lips before approaching an upside-down Timothy, looking at him.

"The thing is," Oswald chuckled, "When I had your job and someone asked me 'what is Ms. Mooney's secret', I could have answered."

He pushed Timothy to the side so he started swaying.

"Oh, Timothy," He spoke in a singsong voice, "I think you're holding back on me."

Timothy looked at him for a moment longer, gulping, his throat visibly making an effort to swallow. Eyes watering.

"Okay…." Timothy said quickly. "I think—I think I might have heard her talking to Butch."

"Talking about what? Whom?" Oswald interrogated.

_God, it made me hot, watching him work. Like holy fucking shit._

"Fal-Falcone," Timothy managed.

I remained seated, but I couldn't help but lean forward as my interest was piqued.

"She said 'our friend'…. 'our friend with Falcone'. That's it," His voice shook. "That's it. She was whispering, please…."

Oswald straightened.

"She has someone close to Falcone," He said happily. "Of course." He then caressed the man's face and said sincerely, "Thank you."

He smiled, then seriously looked at me.

"He's all yours, Pet."

I leaned to the side, took the fruit-slicing knife from the surface of the table and hopped down on the ground, putting on my stilettos. Oswald leaned against one of the pillars of the building, arms crossed lazily over his chest, eyes darkening as he watched the knife twirl in my fingers lazily.

The two men approached as though to participate in the fun.

"He's mine." I told them.

The men glanced at Oswald, who held up a hand for them to stand down. They stepped back, their hands being shoved into their pant pockets. I grinned like Cheshire cat.

"Let's see you get a hard-on now, huh?" I whispered darkly.

Timothy's eyes widened, mouth open in horror as I drove the knife into his stomach. He screamed at the top of his lungs, pleading for it to end as I sliced him from one hip to the other until his entrails became his ex-trails; liver, stomach, and other organs slowly fell from the carcass, a more exciting version of a pinata. I stepped back quickly when the blood shot back from his arteries, the copper oozing and soaking into Timothy's clothes and hair; then it started dripping into a massive puddle of crimson red below him.

I was surprised that none of it had gotten on my dress.

"Holy _crap_ ," muttered one of the boys, his face turning pale.

"That's a _lot_ of blood," the other one groaned.

"You want me to cut him in fourths," I offered to help out with the clean-up, addressing the two men. "It'll probably make the transportation easier."

"No-no-no- _god no_ ," the men insisted. "We'll take him as is, you freaking sadist."

Ignoring their comment, I licked the tip of the knife, tasting the copper. I looked at Oswald pointedly while the men slowly cut the ropes, minding the puddle of blood.

I made a face, saying, "It doesn't taste sweet at all. Fish must have some weird taste buds."

Oswald smirked at me: "Maybe it's just _my_ blood she is after."

I moved over to him and kissed his jaw, then whispered into his ear, "If your blood tastes anything like the rest of you, I'd be after it too."

I licked his ear.

His sharp intake of breath gave me all the clues needed to gather that he was aroused by the spectacle. I pressed my body against his, and I felt his semi-erection. His arms wrapped around my back, drawing me closer. I kissed him; he kissed me back.

When Timothy's body dropped unceremoniously on the floor, it splattered the men with blood and their obvious sounds of disgust made me chuckle.

"You have some weak-stomached employees, Mr. Penguin," I said softly.

I felt Oswald's semi-erection harden after hearing his moniker leave my lips in a seductive tone. He captured my mouth in a hard kiss, one that felt like he might eat me alive. My breath left me. I glanced back at the men who were oddly wrapping the body in clear plastic—when they'd finished, they might as well had wrapped the carcass in a bloody blanket. With one holding the feet and the other holding the shoulders, the men side-stepped awkwardly outside.

Oswald held out his arm for me to take. I happily did so. As we walked out of the warehouse to the car where Gabe was waiting for us, Gabe stepped out of the driver's seat, opening the back door. I thanked him sweetly (he beamed at me) and I crawled into the car. Oswald and I kissed briefly before he went around the other side and sat in the passenger's seat (Gabe closed my door). I leaned forward between them.

"Hiya, Gabe." I greeted.

"Hello, Miss Gordon."

"Stop with the formalities," I said, smacking his shoulder gently. "Just call me 'Sylvia'."

Gabe glanced at Oswald who shrugged with little care of my preferences. I found it curious that with anything that concerned me, all those who were in Oswald's employ always gave him the side-way glance for approval, seeking out his permission, careful not to step over whatever boundaries he had set.

They were scared of him.

And that made my kitty purr.

The car started as Gabe revved the engine and moved out of the parking lot. I leaned forward again to whisper into Oswald's ear. He turned his head to hear me.

"Just so you know, I was serious about the riding crop business," I told him quietly.

Gabe glanced at us, eyebrow raising, but then quickly shot his eyes back to the road, knowing better.

 _Good boy_. _It's for the best._

"I know you're serious," Oswald reassured.

I kissed his cheek, and then sat back in my seat.

There was silence in the car aside from the music that came out as static from the radio. The weather was dull—stormy gray clouds rolling in. It would likely start raining. At the front, Oswald and Gabe were talking about the 'friend with Falcone'. I was about to contribute before my cell phone started going off.

Oswald looked at the back, glancing at me curiously.

"I can bet my life that it's Jim." I said pointedly.

Gabe and Oswald didn't put their stake on it.

I pulled out of my phone, looked at the Caller ID, and chuckled. "See?"

Oswald rolled his eyes then turned to face the front.

"'Sup!"

"What the hell kind of greeting is that?" Jim questioned from the other side.

"I wanted to be spontaneous. You sound grumpy—per the usual. What's up?"

"Barbara left."

"Left-left?"

"Left-left," He confirmed, mocking my slang. "She hasn't contacted you at all, has she?"

"Nope," I answered, leaning back and looking up at the car roof. "If she did, do you think I would have told you?"

"She's not staying with you, is she?"

"Jim, if she was…." I stopped myself, sighing tiredly. "If she was with me, I would have let you know."

"Good."

"Unless, of course, she didn't _want_ you to know, then I might be reluctant to divulge."

" _IS SHE WITH YOU!"_

"Don't fucking _snap_ at **me** , you jackass!" I snapped. "No wonder Barbara got the fuck out of Dodge."

Gabe glanced up at the rear-view mirror, startled by my sudden elevated tone, looking at me with concern while Oswald shifted in his seat, doing the same.

I gave them a look that said 'it's fine, I can handle it'. They turned back and resumed their conversation about the possibilities of who the friend with Falcone might be.

"I'm just worried." Jim said apologetically. "She left me a letter…."

"Was it a Jody letter?"

"Nothing like that."

"Are you sure?"

"She's not cheating on me," Jim emphasized seriously.

"Well, with her type—you never know."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"She's a First-Class _Barbie_ doll, Jim. A real looker," I said smoothly.

"Sylvia!"

"I said she's a _looker._ Not a _hooker_. Anyway, all joking aside—"

"That's not even funny, Vee."

"As I was saying," I made a point to be louder so as to cut him off. "She left you a letter?"

"Yeah," Jim said gruffly. "She's going out of town for a while. Zsasz and Falcone scared her pretty bad."

"Well, I told you. Zsasz isn't a homey guy," I recalled. "As for Falcone…" (Oswald glanced in my direction at the mention of the name) "Meeting the guy first hand after he's tried to kill her fiancé isn't exactly a great first impression. She's scared, James. Give her time. Give her a couple of days. When she's ready, she'll come back to you."

"How are you so sure?"

"I'm not. But it's probably the best advice you're ever going to hear," I said confidently. Switching gears, I asked, "How's work?"

" **Fine** ," he said briskly.

"That doesn't sound like it's 'fine'."

Sensing my helpful tone, Jim said, "Black Gate prisoner, Ian Hargrove. You know him?"

"Do you expect me to be acquainted with every fucking criminal you come in contact with?" I questioned sarcastically.

"No, but it's worth a shot."

"No. I don't know him. What did he do?"

"Escaped during a transfer," said Jim grumpily.

"No shocker there."

"Could you keep the cynicism under control, Vee?"

"No can do, Hoss." I retorted smartly. "Anything else?"

He was silent for a moment before saying quickly, "Gotta go."

He hung up. Just as he did, Gabe stopped the car in front of a classy-looking restaurant. I'd never been before, but from the outside, it looked like a palace. Oswald stepped out wordlessly and Gabe did the same; the latter took two steps and opened my door. I thanked him with a nod of my head; he grinned at me as usual.

"Any certain time you want me to come back?" Gabe asked Oswald, who looked at me for a second (his eyes taking in my lovely disposition) before looking at him again.

"I'll call you." Oswald told him, smiling a little.

"Sounds good." Gabe said, nodding his head in understanding.

He quickly hopped into the driver's seat and drove away. I tilted my head curiously, glancing after the car that sped off before turning to Oswald who smiled expectantly at me.

"He's an odd guy, isn't he?" I asked pointedly.

"Not without reason."

Offering no explanation to the fact, he held out his hand for me to walk first and I did so. Strolling into the restaurant, he placed his hand on the small of my back, guiding me forward. A sweet gesture if one looked at the two of us, but it was Oswald's possessive trait creeping out. I didn't mind it. In fact, the small tinge of jealousy that made his eyes narrow at just about anyone that looked at me made me grin inside.

Being Maroni's right-hand man had its perks. Seeing Oswald, the greeter standing behind a mahogany podium appeared suddenly both excited and nervous as he quickly gestured for us to follow him.

I thought the restaurant looked beautiful on the outside. The interior decorator had really outdone himself. White-painted walls were adorned with real roses on vines that cascaded down pillars like a greenhouse vineyard. Small fountains, the size of bedside tables, were placed at just about every corner of the large dining hall, a glass prism of a cherub angel propped in the center. Along one giant wall was a water fall, the trench below holding the water and recycling the streams. Rocks smoothed by the rush of water lined the moat; on the surface were lily pads with plastic, life-like frogs. Under the surface swam an assortment of exotic fish, some I had never seen before.

"Holy mother of fucking god." I mumbled, picking my jaw off the floor.

The waiter that guided us to our reserved table wore a white-on-black suit, and at my comment, he appeared embarrassed.

"Sorry," I said, smiling gently.

"It's fine, ma'am. That's the usual reaction we get at _Manger Fantaisie_."

I stared at him, saying, "Is that French?"

" _Oui_." The waiter returned cheekily, winking.

"How do you say 'holy mother of fucking god' in French?" I asked the waiter.

He blushed.

"Sainte mère de Dieu putain."

I was taken aback when I heard the translation come from Oswald. I raised my eyebrows at him. The waiter looked just as startled, but not nearly as impressed as I was.

"You know French?" I asked incredulously.

Oswald smiled modestly, saying, "I've dabbled."

The waiter indicated a table, holding out his hand to my chair and scooted it out. I took my seat as Oswald sat down in front of me.

"What will you have?" The waiter asked, taking a pen and pad from the inner pocket of dress jacket, looking at me expectantly.

I smiled at Oswald, leaning forward.

"I want to hear you speak French again." I whispered.

"Shall I order for you?" Oswald asked.

"Please." I insisted, leaning back in my seat.

The waiter turned to Oswald, waiting for the (literal) order. Oswald spoke in fluent French, words I couldn't even catch or hadn't even known existed. I stared at him, still taken aback. With him, I felt like a real lady, a queen, a goddess.

' _Shall I order for you_.'

I never had anyone order for me before. Certainly, I didn't _need_ the extra special treatment but good lord, I felt so spoiled and pampered. And the French—he sounded so fucking sophisticated speaking the language (after all who didn't, but he sounded even _more_ so!).

I'd been with him for months and never knew he was so…. bilingual. A few Latin phrases here, even a fair bit of French eloquence there. His intelligence was off the radar, and I had never been more attracted to him than I was right now. I found myself gripping the edge of my seat to more or less pull back the urge to fuck him three stories under the table.

The waiter commented back in French with approval for whatever was ordered, and then he smiled at me with a preemptive grin.

"What would you like to drink, madame?"

' _Madame'. Aren't_ we _getting cultural?_

"Whatever you think is best." I said, gesturing to him.

"Magnifique." He returned, smacking his lips and blowing a kiss to me.

He strolled away in the fancy suit. I turned to Oswald, who looked at me with a bit of a smug smile.

"Intelligent, strategic, and fluent in French," I sighed, placing my chin in the palm of my hand. "Is there anything _else_ I should know about you, Oswald?"

"I can understand a little German."

"How do you know all of this stuff?"

"My mother was an immigrant, as you are well aware," said Oswald (I nodded), "and she took me several different places while growing up. I've learned to pick a few things up along the way."

"Including 'dabbling' in French," I noted, waving my hand in the direction the waiter had gone.

"Including that as well, yes," said Oswald, smiling sheepishly.

"Well, this certainly brings _my_ heritage towards a prehistorical side with cavemen and dinosaurs," I said pointedly. "The most education James and I ever received from our parents was how to change a tire and a few loop holes in the constitution, resulting in lawsuits involving a hooker and her gun-wielding goat."

Oswald made a face and said, "Pardon?"

"Dad was a lawyer," I said, shrugging a shoulder. "Too many odd cases to count. Gave me a few startling weird dreams as a teenager."

"About a prostitute?" Oswald suggested.

"No, the gun-wielding goat." I returned, smirking at him. "So, let me ask you this. How does someone as sophisticated and educated as you find someone like me so interesting? I'm surprised I don't bore you to death."

Oswald grinned with amusement.

"My dear, you are _anything_ but boring." He reassured. "Your comments made back in the warehouse—for example—can keep a man sitting on the edge of his chair."

I shrugged saying, "Anyone can be a thug, Ozzie."

"The beating is not what I was referring to, Pet," Oswald said smoothly.

A little sly smile lifted the corners of his mouth and I realized he was talking about the comments I made about the riding crop and fucking him.

"That's nothing new. But you know, I'm not wrong." I shifted in my chair, looking at him reproachfully. "Beating up the guy that carried _her_ umbrella"—(We weren't in the right present company to speak so openly about Fish Mooney)—"isn't all that interesting. Anyone can be a thug, Ozzie, or a gangster."

Oswald waved his hand dismissively, saying, "But you are something much more threatening."

I smiled.

"If I didn't know you better, Oswald, I'd say you were trying to butter me up."

Oswald grinned: "Guilty."

He became more serious as he held out his hand and I placed mine in his palm.

"That's not all of what I am doing. The incident with Timothy, this dinner—it's my….my appreciation for you— _towards_ you…."

I noticed the hesitation in his voice, the way he sometimes became incoherent when he attempted to explain his intentions and affection for me. I thought it was beyond adorable.

"Thank you. It's very sweet. And this restaurant alone is unbelievable. What did the waiter say it was called again?"

" _Manger Fantaisie._ "

"What does that mean in English?"

Oswald cracked a grin, saying, "'To eat fancy'."

"Well," I said pointedly as I looked at the overall restaurant. "They certainly nailed that on the head, didn't they?"

The waiter returned with two more behind him, carrying two large platters and the beverages that followed. When the tops of the platters were lifted, the array of colors on the plate ranged from well-cooked red meats, green vegetables, and delectable fruits. In the center of the table, the waiter placed two smaller dishes; atop sat two slices of strawberry cheesecake. A glass of wine was placed before Oswald and myself and a bottle of wine in a bucket of ice was placed on a stool next to the table.

"Sainte mère de Dieu putain," I mumbled under my breath.

Oswald couldn't suppress his grin as the waiter cleared his throat, straightening his bow tie.

"You're a quick study," The waiter noted, smiling at me.

"Yeah," I said, smirking. "Family trait."

"Do I know them, the family?" The waiter inquired.

"Probably not." I said smoothly. I looked at Oswald, "Unless they've been raided and jaded by the police, who really knows _any_ of my family?"

Oswald chuckled.

The waiter glanced at us, realizing that this was an inside joke regarding an unmet character (mainly James Gordon) and he seemed proactive in tending to the other patrons. Just as I was about to dig in, I heard a commotion just to my left. I glanced back but not in time for a different waiter to stumble backwards, holding an array of dishes and wine glasses before finally colliding to the ground. The dishes hit the floor, shattering the China dinnerware. The wine glasses clattered and one spilled on the table, covering my lap and dampening my dress with its contents.

I didn't have such a shocked reaction as the waiter did. He quickly stood up, looking fearfully at myself then at Oswald, who looked like he might pounce on the fellow before I held up my hand and smiled kindly at the waiter.

"It's fine, it's fine," I said quickly.

The waiter swiftly shuffled, and said that he would get a towel.

"Don't worry about it!" I insisted, snatching his arm.

The waiter looked at me uncertainly.

"I'll take care of it," I told him. I patted his arm, turning to Oswald. "I'll be right back."

Oswald nodded, but his eyes glared furiously at the waiter who hedged away before he was left alone with the Penguin.

I made my way to the ladies' room, admiring the lavender-scented restroom, noting the incense burning on the counter with three sinks. Two candles per sink were lit, giving off the scent of the lavender. My heels clicked the surface of the red and white square-shaped tiles. The Queen of Hearts would have fallen in love with it.

 _Off with their heads,_ I thought humorously.

Quickly, I took several napkins, wetting them in the running water and vigorously worked the stain out of my clothes, but I was getting nowhere.

Another pair of heels clicked behind me as the toilet flushed, and I glanced at the reflection of a young, light brunette stepping out of the stall. She wore a baby-girl pink dress with white stockings and she carried a white handbag. Her eyes were wide like a doe's, and she noticed my predicament immediately.

"I have something to get that out," She offered.

"Do you, really?" I said skeptically. "You have a tide pen in that bag of yours?"

"Yeah."

I blinked. The girl sifted her hands through the handbag and held out a tide pen, as promised.

"I don't know how well that will get wine stains out," She said quietly.

She certainly was reserved, keeping her head bowed and her eyes cast down at the sink.

"Well, thank you, Miss…. I'm sorry," I chuckled, "I don't know your name."

"Liza." She said with a smile, looking up at me. "My name is Liza."

"Is that short for Eliza?"

"No." She answered. "It's just Liza."

I watched her wash her hands in the sink, observing her delicate features. She looked at me curiously as I started rubbing the pen on my dress, but to no avail. Luckily, it was dark blue, and it wouldn't show for the most part.

"So," said Liza softly. "Do you come here often?"

"Here?" I reiterated, looking at the bathroom skeptically. "I hardly go out to these types of restaurants."

She laughed, "I know, right? It's too…."

"Expensive?"

"Yeah," she said, leaning her back against the counter.

"So why are _you_ here?"

I rubbed the pen over my dress a little longer before resigning to the fact that this wasn't going to work. I took the wet paper towels and tried to do a little more damage before I gave up.

"I'm here with someone," said Liza, her voice taking on more of a breathy sound.

"Business or pleasure?"

"A little bit of both, I guess."

"Sounds complicated."

"You have _no_ idea."

"Anyone I might know?" I asked conversationally.

"Everyone knows him," said Liza smartly.

 _Well, well, aren't_ we _self-indulgent._

"Do they now?" I said cheekily. I handed her the tide pen: "Thanks, but I think that's as good as it's going to get."

I started to get more paper towels, but there the canister was empty. Liza shook her head listlessly, like the bathroom of the fanciest restaurant should be more prepared for accidents. She sifted through her hand bag once more and brought out a package of Kleenex.

"Damn, do you keep a gun in there too?" I said quizzically.

"Maybe I should," Liza muttered.

"It's Gotham," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "Full of miscreants and bad characters. A girl as young as you should be more careful."

Liza smiled knowingly saying, "I'm more than safe these days."

"Why is that?"

"I'm here with Falcone."

 _And the plot thickens_.

I looked at Liza incredulously.

She smirked. The girl who looked so innocent was suddenly _very_ smug right now.

"Falcone, huh? Don Falcone?" I asked curiously.

"The same."

"Pretty big company for such a young girl like you."

"He wanted to show me a good time," said Liza, shrugging modestly. "I told him I didn't mind…."

"His type is always insistent though on treating a lady well," I said smoothly (thinking of Oswald). "You couldn't say 'no' even if you wanted to, I bet."

I threw away the Kleenex and smiled gratefully at the girl.

"Thank you very much for the help." I said sincerely, holding out my hand. She shook it. "It was nice meeting you, Liza."

"Nice meeting you too…."

"Call me 'Sylvia'." I told her.

She nodded quickly and I walked out of the restroom. I stood to the side, watching her leave as well. She walked out of the restaurant, and got into a car that had its own driver. I strolled from the women's restroom, watching the driver and Liza talk in low undertones before she nodded dutifully and crawled into the backseat willingly. Sitting beside her was the one and only Don Carmine Falcone.

I scoffed and started on my way to my table.

I wasn't surprised to see Oswald having a very strict conversation with the waiter who had spilled wine on me. They were talking in the same low undertones, but I could see the waiter looking more and more terrified. The moment I came to the table, Oswald glanced at me then turned to the waiter.

"Remember what I said," Oswald hissed.

"Yes, Penguin—er, Mr. Penguin, sir." The waiter stammered before leaving his side.

Oswald watched after him then turned to me. Seeing my grin, he looked at me curiously.

"What?" He asked.

"I know who the 'friend' with Falcone just might be."

Oswald leaned forward, interested.

"Who?" He questioned.

I said simply, "Liza."

Oswald simply looked at me with ever-growing curiosity but I said nothing more. We continued to have dinner, talking about the simplicity of Gothamites.

* * *

**Chapter 24: Vulnerability**

The waiter who had spilled the wine on me avoided the table. The man who had waited on us and spoke in French and English became our permanent help. He looked the type to have another big career on the back burner and was doing the waiter thing just to keep up with humble appearances. Every now and then, he came by and filled up our glasses and reaffirming that all was up to par with our standards. After he had left, I watched him speak to a young woman three tables away; she was alone, wearing a sundress, and had the clearest complexion deemed to mankind.

Oswald noticed my shifting gaze, and he followed it to the same woman.

"Is something wrong?" Oswald asked finally, when the curiosity bested him.

I quickly looked away from the girl when she met my eyes, and I looked at Oswald who watched me expectantly as he took a sip of wine from his glass.

"No. Nothing." I said, allowing a small smile to swiftly make its way back to my face as I did the same.

I was lying through my teeth.

The woman at the table was beautiful with sun-bleached curls, side-swept bangs transfixing one's attention to the pair of brilliant emerald green. Her purple sundress made her look innocent, so pure….so sweet. As she spoke to the waiter, her mannerisms reminded me of a well-raised, proper girl whose ambition in the world was to eat the finest of desserts and marry a sweet young man who could give her all she would ever want and she would want for nothing.

Something about her vexed me.

I couldn't explain why. She just… _glowed_. In the most natural, youthful way that irked me.

I guess I was watching her for too long and not as discreetly as I thought because Oswald's eyes narrowed in knowing, and he sat his glass down, leaning forward with a tilt of his head.

"Something _is_ wrong," Oswald corrected.

"Why do you think so?"

"I can hear your thoughts and they're screaming," He gently teased.

I sighed, placing my hand on the table and, with the greatest subtlety, pointed in the woman's direction.

"Do you see her?" I asked quietly.

Oswald glanced back then looked at me: "I do. What about her?"

I frowned, saying, "Do you think she's pretty?"

"Should I?"

"It's a simple question."

"A simple question with an unfortunate consequence if I agree?" Oswald replied smoothly.

"I won't get mad if you think she's pretty. Tell me. _Do_ you think she's pretty?"

He said honestly, "I do."

I nodded, taking that under consideration.

"Why do you ask?" Oswald inquired calmly.

I shrugged.

"Out of all the people here. She's talking to the waiter."

"I'm not understanding the point you're trying to make, Sylvia." Oswald told me logically, interlacing his fingers together on the table.

I bit my bottom lip as I watched the waiter and the woman carry a conversation in French about…. well, I didn't know what it was about since I didn't speak the language, but I wagered it was about the dining area. They gesticulated towards the chandeliers above, the black and navy-blue carpet below, and after a moment, the woman gestured for the man to take the seat opposite of her. After politely declining, the man submitted and sat across from her, looking more or less honored that she had taken interest in him at all.

"Sylvia?"

I looked at him, startled.

He looked concerned.

"What's wrong?" Oswald asked.

"If you could have any woman in the world…If you could have anyone that isn't me, who would you choose?"

"That's an absurd question," He returned, chuckling a little.

"It's hypothetical."

"That makes no difference to me."

"You have _no_ one in mind?"

"Honestly, Hun." Oswald sighed, leaning back in his seat. "You're the only one I would ever want."

"Such a gentleman's answer," I muttered, shaking my head. I glanced at the woman flirting with the waiter. "Would you want her?"

Oswald closed his eyes for a second, like he was praying for patience, before he looked at me with the most serious gaze I had ever seen. The waiter and the woman were talking briefly and they began to stand up and walk over to our table. A moment of instant hatred towards the female dug and embedded itself deeper into the pit of my stomach, like a cramp that refused to let go.

The waiter stood between us and the woman smiled prettily at Oswald then at me.

"This is Rebecca," said the waiter, gesturing to the woman.

"Oh…." I muttered, looking at Oswald who shared the same confused expression. "Well…." I forced a smile. "Hello, Rebecca."

"Hi," the woman said sweetly. She held out her hand and Oswald curiously shook it. "Just wanted to say that it is an _honor_ to meet you, Mr. Penguin…." She gushed, like she just couldn't stop smiling.

Oswald glanced at the waiter incredulously, becoming even more confused. I was with him there.

"Excuse me…." I said calmly. "Who exactly _are_ you?"

"I'm just a big fan of Don Maroni," said Rebecca politely. "And I know you" (She turned to Oswald as though I didn't exist anymore) "work for him, and you're his right-hand man, so I thought I would introduce myself and…"

Oswald smiled at the publicity and looked at the waiter indicatively. The waiter looked happy at the interaction.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, I'm sure." Oswald said, smiling at her.

I felt an unnatural, unwelcome shiver crawl down my spine. Suddenly, I wanted to rip the bitch's eyes out.

"I was wondering," Rebecca said gently. "Could I ask you to have dinner with me tomorrow? It would be such a…."

"Keep walking, Blondie." I said with a forced smile, but otherwise, kept a stern tone.

"Well," Rebecca chirped. "No need to be so rude. I was only…."

I stood to my feet: "I said…. Keep…. _walking_."

Oswald's eyebrows raised a little, watching me.

"Now, now, Sylvia," He said gently, "Play nice."

Rebecca smiled at Oswald, who made a gesture to excuse my outlandish behavior.

"Another time then," She offered, glancing at me. She leaned forward and kissed Oswald on the cheek, who looked surprised. She turned to me. "You should really learn to be politer, Sylvia. I was _only_ trying to tell him how much I—"

"—I know what you're trying to do," I interrupted her. I gestured to the waiter. "Did you put her up to this?"

"What?" Rebecca asked obliviously.

"What?" The waiter also said, looking at me like I was odd.

"Sylvia…." Oswald warned.

"He's my boyfriend." I told Rebecca coolly.

"Well, that certainly can be changed like a blink of an eye. What are you," Rebecca chuckled, "I know who you are—you're that detective's sister, aren't you? A little bit of third-class rubbish—"

"Who are _you_?" I questioned coldly. "You just come out of fucking _now_ here. And **you** …." I turned to the waiter. "Why did you even bring her over here?"

"I—" the waiter began, but Rebecca interrupted him.

"—You know what," said Rebecca coyly. "You're right. I was lying. I didn't even know who this 'penguin' was until he" (She gestured to the waiter) "started telling me about him. In with the big guy, Maroni, you know? I figured, hey, I could try to get in on that, but I didn't realize what a jealous-crazed bitch you were— ** _ah_**!"

I punched her in the face.

Rebecca frowned at me.

She demanded from the ground, "What was that for!"

Oswald looked at the waiter, muttering, "What the _hell_ is happening?"

"I have no idea," the waiter quickly responded.

I looked at the waiter: "Get her away from me. Or I'm going to kill her."

The waiter immediately obeyed, pointing Rebecca towards the exit. I sat back down in a huff, looking at Oswald, who was staring back at me in shock.

" _What_."

"That was quite the spectacle," He commented

"Well, she was coming onto you and I didn't like it," I grumbled as I crossed my arms gruffly. "She made it so fucking noticeable too—at least be fucking discreet about it, you know?"

Oswald's shock passed quickly and a smile replaced it. I looked at him, anger slowly dying.

"What the hell are you smiling at?"

"I have never seen you act like that," He chortled. "That's been in you this entire time?"

I gulped down my entire glass of wine without stopping and placed it on the plate, clearly done with dinner.

"If you're mad because I acted like that, I'm _sorry_ , but she pissed me off. Seeing her kiss you, buttering you up; and, worse, she didn't even fucking mean any of it." I was on a rant. "If you're going to go so far to insert yourself into something, at least mean it. But oo-oo-ooh, no…She just wanted the power—Maroni this, and Maroni that—fucking bitch, the lying little whore—"

Oswald reached over the table, held my jaw firmly and kissed me. Hard.

When he pulled away, I looked at him, eyes wide.

"Unexpected," I mumbled, smiling at him.

"And I thought _I_ was the jealous one," He teased, winking at me.

"You're not mad?"

"Of course not," said Oswald gently. He sat back in his seat, smiling, still. "Honestly, I'd have done the same thing. But let us get a few things clear, shall we?"

"Sure."

He said seriously (that business-like tone), "I'll have to find out where this Liza girl is staying, and find proof that she is spying on Falcone. You'll have to trust me."

"Trust you that you won't fuck her in her apartment?" I offered, feeling that tinge of jealousy find its way back to my stomach as I thought of pretty little Liza kissing him.

He waited for my response.

"I trust _you_. The others, not so much," I said coldly, glaring at literally everyone in the dining area. "I'm sorry…. a girl gets insecure sometimes. Even me. Insecurity is a helpless feeling."

"Well, you needn't worry," said he, kissing my cheek. "Insecurities make us vulnerable. Vulnerability is only human nature."

"Natural, huh? I'm going to hold you to that," I joked.

"I would expect nothing less from you."

After that fiasco, dinner was finished. He and I stood, tipped the waiter a good amount for dealing with Rebecca (although I would have preferred to do it myself), and then Gabe was called to take us home.

Standing outside, I noticed the stormy clouds had only become angrier and it had started to sprinkle. Using the umbrella as a walking cane, Oswald lifted it now for its true purpose. Wrapping his arm around my waist, he pulled me close to him.

When a man walking past us grinned too sweetly at me, I felt his arm draw me even closer to him. I looked up at Oswald to see him glaring dangerously at the gentleman before the latter decided it was best to press onward. We were two jealous birds, but it seemed to be working out all right for the most part.

Gabe pulled up just as the rain had started pouring. He got out of the car quickly, opening the passenger side and the back door simultaneously. I crawled and closed the door on my own, smiling kindly at Gabe who rushed to the driver's seat, side-sweeping his forehead with his hand as the sky opened.

"How was your evening?" Gabe asked no one in particular.

"Eventful," Oswald sighed, situating himself in his seat. "How was yours?"

"Boring. Turns out the only interesting people in our group are you two."

Oswald turned his head to look at me, saying, "See, Honey? Didn't I say you weren't boring?"

"Mm-hmm," I hummed.

Oswald and I stopped at the restaurant to take care a few loose ends. Oswald spoke with the chef about future menu options like the manager that he was. As shift-leader, I dealt with the staff who were requesting time off—this, that, and the other. I still wore my dress and heels and felt very much out of place, but business was business. A few new workers had been added while some had been fired due to negligence (mostly, their manners were out the door, so their paychecks were too). I gathered everyone in the kitchen, waiters and dishwashers alike.

"Our sinks are acting weird," said Chef Billy (didn't know his last name). "Plumber needs to take a look at it."

I added that to my list of things to bring up to Oswald—he was the boss after all.

"Our buffer died," said Mitchell, one of the janitors, kicking his heel against the dull machine sitting half-way in the closet. "Some mouse or vermin chewed through the cord and we ain't got anything else to buff the floors."

"Fuck that," said the Chef, "you can put the metal shiners on your ass and then wipe your butt against the floor, that'll work just as good!"

"Fuck you, Bill," said Mitchell, but there was a smile on his face.

"Can we all be serious for a moment?" I said coolly.

"Sure thing," said Billy, rubbing his left shoulder. "Are we getting Christmas off? Maroni sounds like a guy that would let us off for the holidays, you know."

"Holidays are far away. And Maroni doesn't run the restaurant."

"Well, he might as well run it," said Mitchell, shaking his head. "He owns this place, don't he?"

"He owns it," I said coolly. "But he doesn't _run_ it."

"Eh…." Unanimous shrugs of 'Who really cares' all around.

"Did you go out to dinner or something?" asked Greg—one of the newer waiters. "You look nice."

"Thank you," I said, smiling kindly. "I did. Now…. for the staff members who have children, you will need to find suitable—and I _do_ mean **suitable—** child care while you're at work. We can't have children running around unattended."

"Yeah," said Greg, "after the child-snatcher fiasco, I'm surprised people are still allowing that…. _Mike_."

Mike, another waiter, shot him a look, saying, "My boys ain't go nowhere else to go, _Greg_. They're bored at daycare, and they've been drawing on the doors at home."

"They're drawing on the doors _here_ ," Mitchell snapped. He looked at me. "I'm not cleaning up another knock-off version of the _Mona Lisa_ if I can deal with it."

"They're bored," Mike defended his kids. "If I could bring some toys from home—"

"They need a daycare," I said firmly. "We're not running a babysitting show here."

"Well, why don't _you_ take care of them?"

"Find a daycare, Michael. Otherwise, you'll be let go."

"Oh, that's real fair of you. Taking a single parent out of the job—ain't that some shit."

"Don't pull the guilty card," I said, raising a finger to him. "You knew the rules coming into this job, and they haven't changed."

"What are we going to do about the buffer?" Mitchell said loudly.

"We'll get a repairman."

"He's looked at it—work order's been in for _months."_

"Just mop the damn floors for now, Mitchell," I said, gesturing to the tiles. "They don't need buffing anyway."

"Maroni been giving us compliments on the floors, though. He likes the floors."

"Put a pipe in it," said Billy the Chef with a laugh. "He ain't coming here for the damn floors—he comes here for the food. What's he gonna do, huh? _Eat_ off the floors? Why the hell would he do that?"

"Maybe that's his thing," said Mike, grinning toothily.

Everyone chuckled at that.

"Oh, for goodness sake," I mumbled, rolling my eyes.

"So, when is the repairman coming?" Mitchell asked curiously. "We need that buffer."

"Okay…." I stood at the center and raised my voice. "Let's get a few things straight, 'kay? First off: The repairman _will_ be called, Mitchell. Until then, just mop. Maroni isn't going to care if it's buffed or not—seriously."

"But—" Mitchell began.

"—Hush, I'm not finished." I snapped.

He pressed his lips together.

"Second," I said sternly. "The sinks _will_ be repaired. I've made a list and I will give it to the repairman when—"

"—You mean ' _if_ '—" Greg muttered.

"— _When_ he comes!" I pointed my pen at them all. "Interrupt me again, and you're all fired."

They remained silent.

"The buffer and sinks will be worked on in due time," I told him with forced calm. "Your children—for those who _have_ them—will be placed in a day care or with a babysitter or with whomever you find fit enough to care for your children. We are not running a babysitter's club and we are not going to be held responsible for _when_ these children go missing. Let's face it—Gotham fucking sucks." (I received unanimous agreement with that). "For what it's worth, I do sympathize with your situation, Mike. I'm sorry for your situation, but the rules still stand."

There was a mutual agreement.

"Now," I said with a smile. "As for the holidays, we shall see. I can speak with the manager in regards to what the schedule looks like and we will go from there."

"Or you can just fuck him six days 'til Sunday—make him smile," Mike chuckled, grinning toothily. "Then we can have the whole rest of the year off."

_"Leave. Now."_

I heard his voice and turned to see Oswald standing behind me, in the doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the door frame. How long he had been there, I hadn't the foggiest. Mike looked just as surprised as I was. He clearly wanted to make the effort of arguing with the matter, but he couldn't argue with the manager.

He grumbled under his breath, making a point to shove his shoulder into Oswald before leaving the kitchen. He rolled his eyes then looked at me.

"Continue." Oswald encouraged, gesturing for me to do so.

I beamed, then turned to the rest of the crew.

"Any questions?" I asked.

One hand raised. I acknowledged them.

"Why is the sky blue?"

The staff chortled.

"Any _work-related_ questions?" I specified.

No more hands were raised.

"Good. You all are more than welcome to get back to work."

I turned to Oswald, who smiled at me.

"Look at you," I cooed, touching his shoulder. "Coming to my defend my honor."

"I never liked him," Oswald said callously, referring to Mike. He smiled mischievously, leaning forward as he whispered, "But I _do_ like his suggestion."

"Fucking you six days 'til Sunday?".

Oswald's sly smile confirmed it.

"That's a terrible suggestion. I'd fuck you year-round if it was humanely possible." I kissed his cheek, and walked out of the kitchen with Oswald smiling after me.

Home from the restaurant, Oswald sat on the couch in the living room, watching the news while I cleaned the kitchen (it was long overdue for it).

He stayed on top of things, keeping tabs on what the media knew (and didn't know). There was a lot of speculation about whether the bomber, Ian Hargrove, had escaped during the transfer or whether this was a plot of another kind. I hadn't heard anything from Jim regarding the incident since he had called, but I wasn't ruling out the fact that someone else had taken the bomber for their own reasons.

The media did a lot of speculation. There was an argument laid out on the television between one news channel reporter and the other about Homicide not doing their job and if they were doing it, how come the bomber was still out there?

I finished cleaning the kitchen and walked behind the couch, and placed my hands over Oswald's eyes. He startled, but smiled, placing his hands over mine but I didn't move them.

"Guess who?"

"You're the only one in the apartment, Sylvia." Oswald said logically, resting his fingers on my wrists.

"You never know—I could be a materialized ghost."

"I doubt that."

"I could be a top-secret spy disguised as Sylvia, trying to catch you off guard, you know. Get you when you're at your most vulnerable." I teased, smirking at him.

I lowered my hands on his chest, and he leaned his head back against the couch, meeting my eyes. Wordlessly, I kissed him—an upside-down Spiderman kiss. He returned it.

"Maybe, but I make it a habit _not_ to be caught off guard."

"I thought you said vulnerability is only human nature."

Oswald looked at me in a way that said 'don't twist my words on me', but was I not correct?

Since the dinner reservations earlier in the evening, I had dirty images of us playing on repeat in my head, and seeing him sitting on the couch, relaxed and all, just seemed to break my resolve. I started to loosen his tie, my lips parting so he could deepen the kiss. His tongue rubbed against my own. With his head resting on the back of the couch, his neck was exposed; I lined my fingers along his throat.

_So sophisticated._

I heard him sigh.

_So calm, and collected._

I buried my fingers under the layers of his suit, my thumbs tracing his collar bone. He raised his hands up to my face as the kissing became more passionate. I moved away, circling around the couch. His eyes followed me, almost as though he was in a trance. I undressed him, unbuttoning his jacket, his vest, and the shirt underneath. His skin was warm as my hands were cold; upon my contact, he sharply inhaled.

I knelt down between his legs, unbuckling the belt, unbuttoning his slacks. He shrugged off the layers, all the while watching me. His intense gaze made my cheeks flush with heat, but I didn't stop. I smiled up at him, and although he returned it, there was more than just satisfaction reflecting from the aquamarine.

"Lift your hips."

He did. I held the waistband of his pants and boxers and pulled them down in a single sweep, taking off his shoes and socks, and pushed them aside. Seeing him naked before me while I was still fully dressed gave me a powerful feeling.

He was half-erect, and knowing that just by undressing him had caused Oswald to stiffen made me wet. I pushed his knees apart, standing between them. I smiled down at him.

"Do you feel defenseless _now_?"

Oswald looked up at me, lips set apart, and his fingers clenching the cushion's edges. I reached over him, palms flush with the upholstery as I kissed his chin, his jawbone, his left ear; he followed my mouth with his own, hypnotized. I licked his earlobe, and he shuddered.

"I asked you a question, Penguin," I spoke in the lowest of tones.

I smiled inwardly when his eyelids fluttered, and his knuckles turned white as they tightly clenched the cushions, like he was exercising a great deal of restraint. Glancing down, I saw that his hard-on had become nearly fully erect.

And that made me power-hungry.

I never used his title, not really. But he grew enthusiastic when I did call him 'Penguin'. I couldn't suppress the crooked grin when I pulled back and saw him eyeing me carefully. A glare there was, but not entirely. There was a pique of interest, the intensity in them pulling at me.

I cradled his chin in my hand, smirking.

"You can say it," I purred. "You're vulnerable. All your walls are lowered. Your defenses, out the door. And no matter how much you want to put them back up, you won't."

I touched my lips just a centimeter from his mouth, enough to tempt. My hands moved to his chest, nails grazing his skin downward until they rested on his thighs.

His heavy breathing became shallow, almost non-existent as I massaged his inner thighs, but never touched where he clearly needed me most. As if he held his breath in anticipation.

"Or maybe you can't." I drawled.

"Sylvia—"

"Shh..."

I kissed him again, and he eagerly returned it. He looked at me as I straightened.

"Come with me."

Inside, I was burning with desire, like it would consume me. I normally preferred that he be the dominant one, but the girl—Rebecca—had pulled out a darker part of me that I had not even realized existed.

This jealousy I felt, even hours after it was displayed, had not hunkered down. I needed to know on a deeper level that Oswald was mine. Even if he said I had nothing to worry about, even if I _knew_ I could trust him.

I just had to know that he could be with me as he would allow no other person to see him: Vulnerable.

Into the bedroom, he followed me.

"Lie on the bed."

He looked at me like he hadn't heard correctly. I gestured to the mattress. He cleared his throat but did as I asked. I saw his face flush a shade of pink: Humiliation. Or was it a guilty pleasure for him to be told what to do, now that our roles were reversed?

He moved to the middle of the bed, and lied on his back. From the drawer, I took out two scarves—black as night—and stepped to Oswald's left. He looked at me, eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide.

"Sylvia, I'm not sure that I'm completely comfortable with this." Oswald muttered.

I leaned over, and kissed him again. Soft, and tender.

I placed my hand along his hip bone; the muscle there twitched at my contact, tensing, before immediately relaxing. I slid my fingers down to his thigh, curving inward to feel the stiff member between his legs. Oswald made a small 'mmm', an involuntary moan.

"You know you'll always be my King….my King of Gotham," I gently reassured. "But for tonight…." I rubbed the tip of his cock with my thumb and watched his face reveal signs of longing and pleasure. "I want you to give up that control, give it to me, and allow me to be your Queen."

Oswald looked at me. It felt like a long moment had passed before he rested his head on the bed, looking up at the ceiling.

"I'll keep it loose so if you feel uncomfortable and if you no longer want to proceed, you can take it off."

He consented.

I tied it around his eyes, and smiled when he shakily exhaled. I guided his hands above him as he allowed me to, and tied the second one around the wrists. He nervously bit his bottom lip.

I started undressing and I did it loudly enough that he could hear the rustling of my dress and stockings leave my body. His head moved in the direction of my voice as I walked to the foot of the bed, humming lowly.

The last thing off my body were the three-inch stilettos. On my divan, I stored an assortment of lotions; I rubbed a fair amount on my hands and neck so they smelled like a mix of vanilla and mint. Getting on the bed, I watched Oswald shift in his position.

"You can deny it all you like, Penguin." As I spoke, the corner of his mouth tilted upward at the use of his title. "But you _like_ this—whether it makes you feel uncomfortable or not."

I rubbed his ankles, my skin softened by lotion would feel like a blanket. Up to his knees...his thighs. In the course of the massage, his body loosened and relaxed.

"When one sensation is lost," I said, referring to his eyesight, "your other senses learn to pick up the slack. I'll help you get in touch with them."

I knelt down to all fours, his body directly underneath me. Having him beneath me…. this intelligent, powerful man…. was giving me the giddy jitters. My heart was beating fast, thumping loudly in my brain and it took all my effort not to get it over with and just fuck him. I was teasing him, but this teasing was mainly just for me.

I straddled his waist, and lined my body with his: my perky, bare breasts against his chest, my hips soft with his hips. My fingers interlaced with his; as I kissed his chin and jaw, he moved his head so his mouth found mine.

"Can you hear me?" I asked lowly between kisses.

"Yes."

"Can you _feel_ me?"

I rolled my hips, moving my pussy along the shaft of his cock. Oswald groaned, his teeth gritting and jaw clenching as I continued the slow, steady grind.

"I take that as a 'yes'." I said and I couldn't help the evil little chuckle that came out.

I lowered my hand between his cock and my pussy, feeling his girth and, oh, so wanting him to be deep within my core. I dipped my fingers inside my sex just briefly, moaning without restraint as I took them out. I placed my fingertips along his bottom lip.

"Taste me." I whispered.

His tongue moved out and licked my fingers and he craned his head upward to take more. Oswald sucked my fingers and I stared at him, momentarily taken aback by just how quickly he obeyed.

How he craved the freeing need for submission, a guilty pleasure to let it all go and let someone _else_ take control. In the outside world, there was no chance of that happening. But inside the bedroom…. he was privy to do just that.

He would only trust me with that amount of control. And I felt myself fall in love with him even more.

"How do I taste?"

He answered with a quiet moan and a small thrust of his hips against mine.

"Good answer."

I shoved my mouth onto his, tasting myself on his tongue. The moment he felt my lips on his, he was hungry and eager to please. His hands lifted off the pillows, but I caught his wrists and pinned them back above his head.

"Sylvia…."

" _No_."

Oswald startled at my tone. It was commanding. Authoritative.

I kissed his neck, licking the skin just above the carotid artery and blew. He shuddered.

I sat back up again and continued grinding my pussy along the shaft of his cock. The muscles in his stomach and those around his hips contracted beautifully.

"Don't try taking back control," I said firmly. "Just let go."

Oswald stifled his moans as I gyrated my pussy harder against his pulsing cock. The feel of his girth against my hot sex, and how Oswald clenched his jaw as he made an effort to do exactly the opposite of letting go. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead and neck as a result of his resistance.

I put the tip of his cock against my hot sex, teasing him with the idea of possible entry.

Oswald groaned.

"I can feel you're still holding back, Oz." I reprimanded (but I was smiling). "Remember, you're not with the mob. You're not at work. You're with _me_."

I brushed the tip of his cock against my clit, and I nearly bit my tongue with just how great it felt. I was wet; I could feel my excitement rolling down my thigh and onto the bed sheets. My pussy was clenching with need. Every part of my body wanted Oswald, wanted him deep inside, aching to be filled.

I leaned forward and pulled the sash from Oswald's eyes. He squinted at the bedroom light above us before meeting mine.

"Trust me."

His sterling blue eyes took me in. I reached over and undid his wrist restraints. Then I lowered my body to become flush with his. We kissed gently, tenderly…. then it became passionate, and furious. His hips lifted up to mine, wanting more.

"Tell me what you want, my little penguin."

Oswald's eyes reflected what might have been anger but I felt his erection twitch against my clit.

Someone else calls him 'little penguin', he gets pissed. When _I_ say it, he gets excited?

_Interesting._

I rolled my hips against his, teasing him. His arms wrapped behind me, his hands grabbing my ass as my pussy humped against the head of his cock.

"You want to be inside me so badly, don't you?" I taunted.

"Yes," Oswald mumbled.

"To be so deep inside my hot, wet pussy…. you just don't 'want' it, you _need_ it."

" _Fuck_ …."

Hearing the profanity come out of him was almost enough to persuade. His body was shaking beneath me, trying so hard to maintain an ounce of control. I gyrated my pussy harder along his cock, feeling it—hard as a rock—becoming fully erect. His fingertips dug into the cheeks of my ass, his panting becoming moans caught in his throat.

"That's it…." I whispered. "There it is…."

He was truly at his most vulnerable, red in the face, teeth gritting, sweating. Hungry and needy.

"Tell me, baby. Tell me what you want."

"Please," Oswald begged. " _Please_ …."

"Please _what_?"

"Fuck me for god's sake." He whimpered. "I can't take it anymore…"

I licked his cheek: "Good boy."

I grabbed his cock and shoved him deep inside of me. We both moaned in relief, and then it became animalistic, ravenous sex. In the instant he was inside of me, I lost my cool, my restraint. My nails sank into his chest and I bounced quick and hard on him, feeling his cock penetrate my very core. Oswald moaned loudly, not holding back (much to my satisfaction). It didn't take long for either of us to meet our peak.

But when the climax hit, it hit strong. My body convulsed; black and red circles dulled my vision and I swore the earth moved backwards a few pegs. Oswald's eyes rolled in the back of his head, mouth open in ecstasy—ah, it was beautiful.

I pulled him out, and collapsed on my back beside him.

"That was incredible," Oswald panted.

I smiled at him saying, "I thought so too."

He kissed my bottom lip and I reciprocated it.

* * *

**Chapter 25: A Normal Work Day**

In the morning that followed, I felt groggy and my joints were sore. Particularly the ones that anchored my legs to my bottom half where I had ridden Oswald to oblivion and back. Turning on my side, I saw Oswald sleeping on his side, facing me. The covers had been tangled during the night so half of it covered him and me, while the other half was slowly trying to make its way to the floor. I had crawled out of bed, muttering obscenities when I felt my body screaming.

After a hot shower, I felt a lot better. I pulled aside the curtain and stepped out of the tub and I gasped when I saw Oswald standing in the bathroom, fully dressed.

"Oh my god, how long have you been standing there?" I exclaimed, placing my hand over where my heart used to be (I nearly had a heart attack when I saw him there).

"Longer than you'd like," Oswald admitted with a sheepish grin.

"You move quiet," I commented and I thanked him when he handed me a soft, warm towel which I wrapped around my body.

He acknowledged my observation with a curt bow of his head, obviously flattered, and then was onto business.

"I thought you would be interested in knowing where I will be this afternoon."

"Liza's place?"

Oswald nodded. I smiled kindly, but I felt the familiar urge to hurt a bitch. He stepped forward, and placed both arms around my waist; I lifted mine around his neck almost instinctively.

"You have _nothing_ to worry about, honey."

"I know, I know."

"Given your confession last night, I just wanted to reiterate the point," He said, referring to my admission of jealousy.

"Do I have to apologize again?"

He kissed my lips and I nearly lost my balance. God, the things he did to me with just a simple peck. That was his way of saying I didn't have to say I was sorry for being jealous…. because he was the same way. He was about to withdraw, but I caught his jacket and pulled him closer to me. His low chuckle vibrated in my mouth.

The kiss ended naturally and I beamed at him.

"What if this Liza girl isn't Mooney's spy? What if I'm wrong?"

"Don't be so quick to doubt yourself: Natalia is gone," Oswald reasoned. "And Liza looks like a spitting image of his mother. Mooney and Falcone talked frequently about his mother. I have a hard time believing this is all coincidental. So, it's plausible."

"Who the hell is Natalia?"

"She was his last lady friend."

"I'm sure her disappearance was a 'coincidence'." I said sarcastically.

"Just as I am sure that Liza didn't just 'happen' to become Falcone's new love interest," Oswald replied with same dripping sarcasm.

"Fish using Falcone's mother against him…. would that be to say that if I looked like a younger version of your mother, you'd fancy me as well?"

Oswald gave me a look.

"What?" I responded innocently. "I'm not saying you'd fuck your mom, Oz. I'm throwing out a hypothetical."

"Can we not—I'd rather not talk about this. Not even hypothetically."

I shrugged, turned around, unwrapped the towel from my body, flipped my hair over and began drying my hair with the sole intention of not getting Oswald wet.

As I did, I felt him move closer to me, the texture of his suit brushing briefly against me.

I heard him sigh, and felt his hands on my shoulders, tracing down my naked back. They moved even further down, cupping my equally bare ass.

"You're in a frisky mood."

"Mmmm."

I swirled my hips so my ass pressed further into his hands. His snicker from behind me came from a place of amusement.

"Still thinking about last night?"

"It'll be a night I won't forget."

"Same here…I think we should do it again."

"I doubt I'll be able to say 'no' if we do."

"Meaning?"

"You have an indomitable will," Oswald said lightly as I straightened, turning around to look at him.

"You seemed to enjoy it enough."

"It was a different kind of torture."

I winked and walked past him. He looked after me as I moved to the bedroom and watched me dress into jeans and a T-shirt.

"What are your plans for this evening?" He asked, minding my graceful movements.

"I'm going back to the restaurant; I have to put in a few orders for repair," I listed off. "The staff are a bunch of whining babies, but some of them actually made legitimate complaints. I intend to handle it to the best of my ability without it going to a higher level."

"You mean _my_ level."

"Yes. **Your** level," I confirmed, bending down at the waist to lace up my boots. "And I have to hire someone to take Mike's place."

"Sounds tedious."

"Oh, it is, believe me. But it's the least of my complaints though—the guy was an ass."

"I remember. Any chance you'll be hearing from James Gordon?"

"No. Should I be expecting a call?"

He cracked a grin: "He tends to show up at the most interesting moments."

"Only when he needs information from me."

"Does that bother you?"

"Even if it did, I can't help it. That's always been Jim's way."

Oswald nodded, but didn't say anything to the fact.

"He's been working on the bomber case," I said conversationally as I stood to my feet once my boots were completely laced. "Told me his name, but I have never heard of him."

"What's his name?"

"Ian Hargrove: Black Gate prisoner. Simple name enough, but I don't know bombers."

"Why would you?"

"Jim thinks I might. Like I know every criminal in town—told him that myself. But I digress."

I moved to leave the bedroom, and Oswald stepped out of my way.

"Do you ever worry about him?" He questioned, watching me gather my keys and phone, placing both items in the back of my jeans.

"Jim? No." I shook my head. "He's always been able to take care of himself, pretty well-to-do guy. If I ever worry about him, it's because he can't handle his own."

"He worries about _you_ ," Oswald cared to note.

"He does, but he shouldn't have to."

"And why is that?"

"I have you." I kissed him and he reciprocated it. "And you're all I will ever really need, sweetheart. I'm going to the restaurant before the first shift leaves for the day. One more meeting should whip your staff back into shape."

"Is that right?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Mmm."

He kissed me again, and I reluctantly pulled away. He grinned when I did.

"I love you."

"I love you too," He said and then I was out the door.

"You can't just call me out of the blue and expect me to fix things in a day," said Moe, the repairman. He stood across from me in the restaurant, wearing a white shirt and blue overalls and a pair of black goulashes. He had a _lot_ of facial hair, even for a plumber.

"It's a buffing machine," I said patiently. "It just needs its cord replaced."

"You dames think everything can be solved like 'that'," He said hoarsely, snapping his fingers, "but it ain't. I need to order the cord, have it shipped—"

"Then do it. Don't give me excuses."

"I'm not giving you an excuse—I'm telling you why it's not going to be fixed by the end of the day."

"I never said I wanted it fixed by the end of the day. You just assumed I did."

Moe stared at me, blinking a few times before he held out his hands.

"Look. The cord itself is gonna be like a hundred bucks, _at least_."

"What's your point?"

"It'll take a little longer than a couple days to get it in. Then I'll be borrowing the machine a few more days after that."

"Then borrow the machine," I insisted, throwing my hands up in the air. "Just take the damn thing. We can't use it anyway—it's broken."

"Do you have the manager's permission?"

I gave him a look.

"I'm just askin'," Moe said cautiously, stepping back a pace. "People say they got the manager's permission but then when the deed is done, they're saying they never even talked to the manager, and I am not about go through _that_ again."

"I have his permission and I am proceeding under his good graces," I reassured smartly. "Now can you fix the contraption or not? If you can't, you need to let me know so I can find someone who _can_."

"I can, I can. It'll be easy enough. But the sinks are not my problem. That's a plumber's issue."

"You _are_ a plumber."

"I'm a repairman."

"You fix sinks, don't you?"

"Yeah but—"

" _Plumber_ ," I emphasized.

"That sink ain't my territory, lady," Moe snapped. "It has a different manual, and different _company_. This company I work for don't do anything for sinks or plumbing, just the equipment. Like the buffer or the dishwashers."

I let out an exasperated sigh. Moe sensed my irritation (the whole restaurant could). I rubbed my face and looked at him pointedly.

"If you can't fix the sink, _who_ can? I need a name."

"I have a reference but—"

"What's the name?"

"Bob."

I blinked again.

"'Bob'?" I repeated skeptically. "Bob. Moe—what camping ground do you guys burrow under so I can rid the city of your pathetic existence?"

"Whoa, now. I've not insulted _you_. No need to get all genocidey."

"Of course not, you're right. You're only irritating the fucking crackers out of me. What's Bob's last name—and I swear to god, if you say 'the builder', I will fucking pop you."

"Robert Farnsworth," Moe answered immediately. "He has a shop down a few streets between 4th and Main. It's like a little pawn shop, but it ain't. It's got a few trees behind it—hard to miss, but I swear it's there."

I stared at Moe, who looked back at me with trembling lips.

And then I realized it.

Moe was afraid of me.

 _Damn,_ I thought. _That feels kinda nice._

"Phone number?"

"Here." He had one of the waiters scratch off a piece of notepad paper and he borrowed their pen, scribbling a number quickly, and he gave it to me.

I looked at it.

"Is that a seven or a one?" I asked, pointing.

"Seven."

"Looks like a one."

"It's supposed to be a seven."

"Fine." I said, pocketing the scribble. "So, you're fine with fixing the buffing machine?"

"Yeah, like I said. Just a few days, and I've got it taken care of."

"Good. Can you pick it up today?"

"I can get a truck. It won't fit in mine, but I can make it work."

"Fine," I said, nodding my head in approval. "Give me the total cost, the bill, and we'll go from there."

"Yes, ma'am," Moe said hurriedly.

He nearly stumbled over his feet as he made his way to the door. I heard a low, deep chuckle echo from behind me and I turned to see Maroni watching me, standing behind him were Gabe and Tomas. I looked at him curiously before resuming my natural happy candor, holding out my hand as I approached him.

"Don Maroni," I greeted as he shook it, "I didn't think you were going to be here this afternoon."

"Eh, I thought I would check up on my favorite gal—and I'm not the least bit disappointed," Maroni laughed, smirking at me. "You had that guy sweating like a turkey during Thanksgiving."

"Can turkeys sweat?"

Maroni looked at me, thought for a second, and said humorously, "You know, I don't really know, but you get my point."

"Sure."

"Where's your other half?" He asked, looking about the restaurant. "I've not seen him around."

"I'm taking care of business on his behalf," I answered honestly. "So, he can take the day off."

"An employee who looks after her boss—so you must be his far better half," chuckled Maroni, crossing his arms lazily over his chest.

"He considers myself to be."

Maroni nodded, smiling widely. His eyes followed the two men who had accompanied Moe as they made a great effort of taking the buffing machine out of the kitchen and bringing it through the front door. The restaurant itself was crowded and they were making a scene about how they might get it through the front door.

"Guys. Guys…. GUYS!" I shouted.

Moe and his co-workers looked at me, including everyone else in the restaurant.

"Take it through the _back_ ," I ordered. "You can't get it through the front."

"That's what she said," chuckled Moe's co-worker.

"Shut the _hell up,_ " Moe snapped.

I grinned broadly as they made their way back through the kitchen and out the double doors in the back room. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, doing my best to suppress a headache.

"I see you have your hands full," Maroni commented, looking at me sympathetically. "Anything I can help with?"

"If you have the number to a competent repairman in Gotham, I would be most grateful."

"Sorry, babes," He apologized modestly, holding out his hands apologetically. "That's not my specialty—repairmen. Now if you need someone taken out..." (He mimed a gunshot.) "You know where to find me, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

He patted me on the back and I watched him leave with Tomas and Gabe, who gave me a respectful, curt nod in return before following him out.

Moe came back to the center, looking at me reprovingly.

"So, we might have a problem."

"What?"

"My boys just…." He trailed off when the lights suddenly went out and the customers were tossed into darkness, aside from the compassionate sun light peeking through the large bay windows around the diner.

I glared at Moe.

"Well, never mind, you already know," muttered Moe nervously. "They blew a fuse."

"No shit, sherlock," I said apathetically, shaking my head.

I pulled a chair out just as some of the customers were getting riled and I stood on it: "Don't worry, people! It's just a blown fuse! It's being taken care of. While you wait, please, alcoholic beverages are on the house."

Multiple cheers, all around.

I hopped off the chair, ignoring Moe as I said to the bartender, "Be generous with the ice, would you? If I'm giving away free drinks, I'm going to make it half-ice."

The bartender nodded dutifully.

I turned to Moe.

"Why are you still standing here? Get working—and fix the fucking fuse, please?"

"Yes, ma'am!" Moe called as he headed back into the backroom.

_Fucking idiots._

I was in the hiring process, having interviews in the open with a few who had spurred my interest. There was Maria, who had experience waitressing in a few towns outside of Gotham. She was an older woman in her 60's, and had a few degrees in the culinary arts. Her goal wasn't to make money, but to offer rich service to customers alike.

The second was a young man, aged 19, who never had a job. He was handsome, the stereotypical pretty boy one would guess to be a part of varsity football team. He didn't have any extracurricular activities and his mom drove him from home to school and vice versa. When asked if he would be able to get to work, he said he takes his bike and would be able to accomplish transportation in that way most of the time. He had high marks, mostly straight A's.

My last candidate was Mike.

He came to the restaurant, asking for his job back.

"I didn't fire you," I emphasized for the tenth time during this conversation. " _My_ boss fired you. So even if I wanted to, I couldn't give your job back to you regardless of the fact."

Mike went down on his knees in front of me.

_Oh, for the love of…._

"Please?" Mike begged, palms together in prayer. "D'you have any idea how hard it is to get a job in Gotham? One that actually is worth having, I mean?"

I frowned.

"Would you get off your knees?" I asked.

"I'm _begging_ you, Sylvia…. Miss Gordon, ma'am, please…. Look, I'm sorry for the comment I made earlier. You know? I was just tired and irritated and—you can understand what it's like working here, right? It's a hard job—you worked here—you still work here…."

"Get _up_ , Michael."

He quickly did as he was told, standing to his feet.

"I'll tell you as I've already said. I can't hire you back. You're on a blacklist, first off, and second, I, personally, won't go behind my supervisor's back and hire you when he's the one that kicked you out initially. Now, I'm sorry for your predicament, truly, I am." (And I was). "But you're beating a dead horse."

Mike frowned.

"I have two boys. They're five and six. How am I going to explain to them why we had don't have any electricity?"

"You can tell them you blew a fuse."

He didn't get the inside joke on that one—I forgot he wasn't here for that bit of calamity.

"Our bills are piling," Mike said, even quieter. "And I'm the only one that can pay 'em."

I stood: "Like I said: I'm deeply sorry, but my hands are tied."

"This was the last option. No one will hire me."

"Of course, no one will hire you. You have two young children, and you're a single parent. You make inappropriate comments to people about their sex life—namely mine—and you've been at odds with Mr. Cobblepot ever since you were hired here."

Mike's frown deepened.

"Now, I'm sorry you're in this predicament—I've said it countless times. But there's nothing that I can do. Okay? So…. if I were you, I would try going anywhere else but here. McDonald's is always hiring, you know."

"That's it?"

"That's all I can do, Michael," I emphasized, shaking my hands.

"You can talk to—"

"Let it _go_. I'm not talking to anyone—not Maroni, not Mr. Cobblepot—no one. You've been told several times that this is a no-go. Please, leave."

He stepped towards me.

"You're going to let two children live without a working father—how merciless are you?"

"Okay…." I sighed irritably. "First off—I can't believe you're dragging this out. Second: step the hell back."

When he didn't, I started to move past him, done with the conversation. But lo and behold, he apparently felt differently. He grabbed my forearms.

"GIVE ME MY JOB BACK!"

I stared at him, feeling my stomach turn unpleasantly. I clenched my jaw, and my hands. I only looked at him coolly, hoping I wouldn't have to fight him in front of all these families. Hearing the commotion, several of the staff members strode out quickly from the kitchen and back room to see their shift leader held in a vice-like grip.

"You need to let me go," I told him calmly. "You need to let me go and walk away."

Mike's eyes—they were cold like ice. His upper lip trembled in fury. His gaze darted all around the room, taking in the fifty plus people in the dining area, knowing that one wrong move would not end well for him. Despite my overall fervent personality, I appeared well-liked by mostly everyone as several of the families slowly stood, including fathers, husbands, and sons. They looked angrily on.

"Leave, Michael." I said sternly.

"Security's been called," said Chef Billy, who had come out of the kitchen, having heard the shouting. "They're on the way."

 _Triggered_.

Mike roughly spun me around, wrapped his entire python-like arm over my chest and from the inner pocket of his jacket, he whipped out a pistol.

_Great, and now I am hostage. Fucking peachy._

"Mike…." Billy began cautiously, stepping forward.

"DON'T FUCKING MOVE!" Mike screamed. Taking me with him, he started moving into the kitchen, waving his gun around: "EVERYONE OUT OF THE KITCHEN! GET THE FUCK OUT!"

Billy frowned, lowering his hands.

"Do as he says!" I hissed. "Go!"

With the dangerous guy moodily pacing about (with me in his grip), the many customers ran out of the building, some crying and some waving their arms like the balloon streamers at car shows. He pushed me down on the tile and I sat in soapy water, grimacing when I felt it soak through my jeans and my underwear.

I began to stand, but Mike cocked the gun. And I decided that sitting in the water was probably for the best.

"I told you! This was my last option."

 _Technically, taking_ me _was your last option. Not necessarily a good idea, but…._

Mike closed the door. With an impressive feat, he pulled the working refrigerator from the wall and shoved it in front of the freely swinging door. Before I could think, he was at the exit, doing the same thing except with a stove.

_He's barricading us._

"You know," I said slowly. "There's really only one option left if you do things this way."

"What?"

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"I'll be taking you with me," growled Mike, eyes blazing.

I held up my hands in surrender, opting to say nothing to that in fear of what he might suggest to come.

He paced, careful not to slip on the soapy dish fluid that spilled when he'd ripped the stove from the sink. His anger pulsed through his veins; they were protruding through his neck. He was well-built, a strength-training hobbyist so it should not have surprised me that he could lift the appliances. The fact he did it so aggressively was what made me feel like a small little girl inside.

I didn't scare easily. But now…. well, I was honestly scared.

"You would let two children die before you went against your boss," Mike grumbled, glaring at me.

"In my defense—"

He punched the wall, denting it.

" _Nevermind_ ," I said quickly.

"You don't know what it's like to feel desperate," Mike uttered helplessly, leaning against the refrigerator, gun being waved around freely as he gesticulated in conversation. "You think one moment you have everything planned out, you think everything's going to play out the way you want, but shit like _your boss_ happens. He just fires you—no warning at all—and when you try to come back, you're told 'oh we can't do anything, my hands are tied'. Fuck that. Fuck this place. Fuck him."

"Michael…."

He glared at me.

"Michael, listen to me. I know you're angry. I can understand—I mean, _truly_ understand" (He let out a hateful sigh.) "where you're coming from, believe me. I know what it's like to feel desperate and helpless. But this isn't the way to do things."

"You're trying to psyche me out," said Mike resentfully. "To get the upper hand…."

"I'm not. I swear I am not."

Mike and I glanced towards the stove-blocked exit door, hearing the many police sirens going off. My heart quickened when Mike's eyes widened and then he looked at me with such resentment, I was certain he would shoot me right then and there.

"You didn't want to hire me. You said it's because of your boss—your fucking boyfriend. So, let's talk about that, huh? Let's talk about him. While they try to come in and save you, and shoot me."

"I'd rather not—"

" _Not your choice_."

"Fine. Let's talk."

I sat back down on the floor, cradling my knees into my chest. He stared at me for the longest time, rolling his gun between his hands like a bar of soap. How his eyes hurt when they glared down at me.

"Where'd you meet?" Mike asked coldly.

"Fish Mooney's." I answered truthfully.

" _That_ bitch's club?"

"Yes, that bitch's club."

"How was the first date?"

"It was nice," I answered vaguely.

He held up the gun, and then shot the ceiling. I flinched. He then aimed the gun at me.

"Not good enough. Give me details."

"Why do you even care?"

"Because you looked at him…. but you never looked at me."

"Is that what this is about?" I questioned skeptically. "You have a _crush_ on me?"

"Part of it is because of you won't give me my fucking job back," said Mike vehemently. "The other half is—well, sure. Why not. I like you—well, _like_ is a little understated, I suppose. I really loved you. Truly."

"Oh god…." I muttered, rubbing my face. "You don't know me. You can't love someone you don't know."

"I know you. I _know_ the **real** you."

_Are we really doing this?_

"You don't know anything about me, Mike. You think that by screaming at me and telling me sob stories about your children would make me re-hire you after the illicit comment you made towards me about my love life. That doesn't sound like someone who knows me, that sounds like someone who doesn't know what love _really_ is and you're—"

He held the gun up to the ceiling and I flinched, even though he never shot it.

He smiled.

"So, tell me about you now…. lord knows we have the time." Mike chuckled darkly, gesturing to the enclosed kitchen.

I tried to breathe evenly, but I was starting to feel a little claustrophobic.

"When did you lose you virginity?" He asked, grinning broadly at me.

I looked at him, incredulous.

"I'm not going to answer—"

He aimed the gun at me and cocked it.

"You said I don't know shit about you. I'm resolving the issue. Now tell me who you first fucked and when—and hell, even _where_."

"Tell me or I will shoot you, Sylvia. If you think I'm bluffing, try it."

My voice shook when I spoke: "David Beals."

"You call him 'Dave'?"

"He went by 'Alex'."

"Middle-Name-Guy, huh. How old were you?"

"I was 21."

"Where did you fuck?"

"We made love in the ocean."

"Where's the fucker now?" asked Mike, rolling his eyes.

"Probably jail. I don't know. I lost track of him when we broke up a month later."

Mike grinned maliciously.

"Jailbird, huh? Well, I shouldn't be surprised. You like those birds, don't you? Jailbirds and penguins…. What happened, little Vee? Let me guess. Did he get what he wanted and dump you?"

There was more to the story, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction to ask more questions.

I said harshly, "Yes! That's what happened!"

Mike stood and walked over to me. I flinched away. He grabbed my arm, pulling me towards him.

"Did you fuck him or did he fuck you?"

"He fucked me." I answered, my voice sounding unlike my own—detached.

Mike threw my arm and I let it fall like a rag doll along my side.

He listened, ears perking up when the sirens dulled. I couldn't hear anything _except_ the sirens. And the blood rushing to my head. There was a glass wall between the wash room and the dining area. We were nowhere close to it, huddled in the opaque corners of the kitchen and the dark walls of the back room. If I made a run for it, I _might_ clear it and break through the glass wall. But that was a long shot.

"Where did you and flappy bird go for your first date?" Mike questioned. For better measure, he held the gun in my face.

"We went to the carnival."

"Carnival? Shmancy guy like that should be taking you to the art gallery."

"I've already seen the art gallery—my sister-in-law owns one. Besides…." (I thought of Oz as we spoke.) "He knew I hated galleries. I like carnivals." I glared at Mike. "Something _you_ wouldn't know…. you horse's ass."

He grinned toothily: "Did you kiss him good night? Did he walk you to the door, or did you invite him inside to your apartment?"

I raised my head proudly.

"I invited him in. But he politely declined, like a fucking gentleman—again, something _you_ don't know anything about."

"I bet you're a real animal in the sack," Mike pondered aloud with a weird expression on his face, looking me up and down. "Those big blue eyes, so innocent…. but that red hair…. I always wondered if the carpet matched the drapes."

"You're insane," I scoffed.

"Maybe…. But you pushed me to this point, didn't you? You could have saved yourself the trouble of this whole thing if you just—for once—thought about me and gave me my job back. We wouldn't be in this mess. I wouldn't be here, holding this gun, and you wouldn't be on the fucking floor."

"No, Mike." I sighed, looking tiredly at him. "How I see it, you would be exactly where you are right now—regardless if I hired you. You brought that gun with you to work, not knowing what I would say. This was premeditated from the start, wasn't it? You might not have _wanted_ it to get this far, but you thought about it. And clearly…." I nervously laughed. "Clearly, you put enough thought into to actually go through with it because here we are."

From the outside, an altered high, booming voice. Jim's voice.

"MICHAEL TRAVINSKY!"

I glanced at the blocked door.

"Michael! My name is Detective James Gordon of the GCPD!" Jim shouted through a megaphone (Although it came out like a normal voice inside the room.). "I don't know what's going on—" ( _Ain't that the truth.)_ "—But I am sure this whole thing is just a huge misunderstanding."

Mike glared at me: "Your brother just goes where the bell tolls, don't he?"

"Like clockwork," I answered gravely.

He grabbed the neck of my T-shirt, hoisting me up forcefully.

"Easy, _easy_ ," I whispered, and it came out like a plea and I hated myself for it.

"Get the fuck up, bitch…. if I am going out there, you are too."

"Going out _where_?"

Mike moved me in front of him, his hand now wrapped around the nape of my neck. Mine quickly shot up to keep the pressure off; those fingers were digging into my breathing room! He used me as a human shield, the gun set right against my carotid artery as he and I staggered forward.

Then he realized the door was still blocked.

"Don't you fucking move," He growled. "I gotta move the stove. If you move, I'll shoot you—and you won't have to worry about anything else."

"Fine." I managed.

He moved the stove and then the moment it became free, he grabbed my neck again, shoving me in front of him once more. I gritted my teeth as he broke down the door, and I was facing about twenty police officers, excluding Capt. Essen, Harvey, and my own dear brother, Jim. The more surprising feat was that standing adjacent to them was Don Maroni and his twenty-something goons, pistols aimed in my direction. Maroni was leaned against one of the cop cars, having an odd conversation with a younger police officer and when the door was broken down, he told his men to stay calm, and don't do anything drastic.

And standing next to him, looking absolutely piss-worried was Oswald. Seeing me in my position, held as a hostage, Oswald had two clear emotions written on his face: rage and fear. Jim glanced at him then at me, and he lowered his gun when he saw me.

_Shoot him, Jim. Shoot the fucker, don't worry about me…._

"Michael—that's your name, right," Jim said quickly, holding his other hand up cautiously.

"You know it is!" I snapped.

Mike tugged me closer to him and the gun dug into my hip and he shouted in unregistered volumes, "Shut the _fuck_ up!"

"Sylvia, don't talk," Jim said calmly.

"Just fucking shoot him!" I started to step away.

"You're _not_ going _anywhere_ , you fucking cunt!"

"If you don't let me go, asshole, you're going to get gunned down!" My voice broke out of fear and desperation to get out of this awful mess. "And I'm _not_ about to be the victim here!"

"You're in the same shithole just as much as I am!"

"The hell I am," I said coldly, looking at him. "You have the fucking cops surrounding this place because _you_ took a hostage— **me—** who, by the way, has a fucking cop for a brother" (I gesticulated pointedly to Jim) "so he has every fucking available personnel out there—as you can fucking see. They have a code, and they may not kill you, but there's no negotiating your way out because _if they don't kill you_ **Maroni** fucking will because you have his 'favorite girl' strapped to your fucking hip!"

Mike stared at me incredulously, the gun held loosely in his hand—yet still buried in my hip—as he realized just how big the shithole was in perspective to where he was standing.

"Now who's the stupid _cunt_?" I questioned, smirking at him.

Mike glared furiously at me.

"I may be dying because of you." He breathed. "But you're the one who's really fucked."

"Why is that?"

"Because I'm not the one with a hole in my neck."

Before I registered his meaning, he forced me to turn, he aimed the gun at me. There was a unanimous 'DON'T DO IT!' from the cops.

Then he pulled the trigger.

I saw Jim shouting and everyone with their guns aimed and let loose the fire power. My vision became blurred as I looked up. Oswald was at my side, screaming, but I couldn't hear what he was saying—voices were garbled like I was swimming under the ocean. Pain had struck my neck, searing, and just as quickly, I was numbing, feeling nothing. Jim knelt down beside me, looking more than worried.

His hand on my neck, pressing down to slow the bleeding.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. But all I could do was say only one single word.

"Ozzie…."

* * *

That's the entire upload of _Penguin's Weakness_. The sequel to this is called ' _He Calls Me Pigeon_ '. This and the next installments are in First Person POV but the rest of them move to Third Person in order for me to tell the story in the way I've envisioned it. If you like it, let me know. If not, well, I guess you don't have to read it so thanks for stopping by anyway :) Love ya! 


	2. He Calls Me Pigeon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the series. This is the second installment. Forewarning: This has triggers of non-con and sexual assault scenes, and elements of torture. Trigger Warnings have been denoted at the beginning of applicable chapter. 
> 
> Highlights: Sylvia officially meets Mama Cobblepot; Oswald asks a special question; Oswald and Sylvia are both dominating and submissive depending on the sexual circumstance (Oswald finds out that Sylvia is really domineering when she's been drinking); Victor Zsasz and Sylvia Gordon become contract buddies and soon establish a work-married dynamic; Sylvia's devotion to and need to defend Oswald becomes that much more glaringly obvious to Jim, which creates riffs in their relationship; Sylvia and Nygma become friends; and Oswald takes Gotham by its reigns.

Title: **He Calls Me Pigeon**  
Chapters: 20, Words: 81,569

**Chapter 1: Stay With Us**

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters besides those that don't seem recognizable (Mike, Billy the Chef, etc.….) and my OC is Sylvia Gordon. All the main plots of _Gotham_ belong to the _Gotham_ writers. I have subplots throughout the original plotline. No profit is being made from this, and this story is purely based on fiction.

"We need to get….to the ICU…. Make…. Turn this way…."

A female's voice came in and out, like I was being pulled out of the water, only to be shoved back under the rolling, garbled depths once more. Metaphorically, of course.

I could open my eyes a little, but the effort to do so was a lot of work. My body was limp. I tried moving my arms, to wiggle my fingers, but nothing happened. I tried moving my toes— _wiggle toes, come on!_ —but they refused to obey.

"Drive faster…."

_Jim._

I could hear his voice; I felt him moving on my right, sitting in the ambulance with me.

"Stay with me, Sylvia…. _with me_ …." He said, his voice muffled and echoing.

Looking at him, I could see the worried lines creased on his forehead, his blue eyes, which bore the same resemblance to mine, watching me. He was holding my hand firmly, and the other touched my shoulder.

What was happening to me!

Was I dying?

I tried turning my head to get a grasp of all that was happening around me…. but I couldn't. I was incapacitated. A neck brace kept my head still, just as the drugs being pumped through the needle in my arm made my body limp. Dead weight.

I heard the steady purr of an engine, and the siren sounds of the ambulance, but they were muffled too. I forced my eyes open, fighting the urge to fall asleep. I couldn't fall asleep—I had to know what was happening. If I closed my eyes, I was certain I wouldn't wake up.

I felt a hand on my thigh, it was soft and light. Glancing down, however, I saw that it was gripping, my clothes wrinkled with the pressure.

_These ambulance people really know how to kick up the morphine._

I followed the pale hand to a well-suited figure and saw that it was Oswald Cobblepot who occupied my left-hand side. Raven hair, cerulean eyes looking at me with just as much worry as Jim. He saw that I was awake or trying to stay that way. He spoke but like the rest of the voices in the ambulance, his words were muffled, garbled noises to my ears. I tried to speak, but even as my mouth moved, it just barely did so. It, too, felt like dead weight, detached from my body.

"It's okay, Pigeon…." Oswald said with an attempt of comfort—but his voice shook, and I could see his true emotions so clearly written on his face. Fear and worry. I glanced between him and James Gordon, my older brother. They were saying more, their voices firm, but soothing.

The numbness in my brain was stretching out, creeping towards my forehead, down to my nose and mouth. I couldn't keep my eyes open. When they closed, Jim was shouting. Then Oswald was too…. Were they shouting at each other? Or at the drivers of the ambulance?

_So tired….so…._

"Lift her on the stretcher on one—three…. two…. _one_!"

Two men dressed in white lab jackets grabbed the top and bottom of my cot and hoisted me on a metal gurney. They spoke in medical jargon for the better part, which only confused me. The stretcher was being followed by two men—Jim was barking orders at his police officers to do something while Oswald ignored everyone else and quickly, to the best of his ability, kept up with the stretcher.

I tried to talk, to tell him I would be okay. But nothing came out. I couldn't even make out even a syllable. And my arms couldn't even move to hold my hands out to him.

Men and women dressed in seal blue scrubs hurried to the stretcher, swinging open double doors. The intercom garbled 'code blue'. Why did I get the feeling that _I_ was that code blue? My eyes were getting heavy….

_Don't close them. Don't you fucking dare. Come on, Sylvia…._

More medical jargon exchanged between what looked like fifty people in the room—then again, my vision was doubling, even tripling the true count. I started panicking, seeing the hard, stern expressions of what I assumed to be the doctor as he made cynical comments about bullets and the morality rate of one being able to survive.

My panic caused a ripple of extra maneuvers from the nurses around me. Their eyes darting to the machine that calculated my heart rate and blood pressure before rushing around like chickens with their heads cut off.

"Miss Gordon…. Miss Gordon!"

I looked up at the ceiling. Blocking my view was the doctor.

Salt-and-pepper hair, medium build…. I think he was wearing glasses…. maybe?

"We're going to get you fixed…. up, we're going to make you…. better, can you hear me?"

I narrowed my eyes, trying to understand him. Or at least to read his lips.

"Can you hear me?" He said loudly.

The morphine….so numbing, so powerful. I couldn't….

Ten minutes passed—or maybe five hours—I couldn't be sure.

"One more shock should do it—everyone stand clear!"

Two metal pads connected to a defibrillator hissed and a nurse held them above my chest.

_Oh fuck, they're going to shock me…. WAIT! I'm AWAKE!_

I mumbled loudly, "mm-mm!" and I was certain they hadn't heard but the doctor, like a saint, saw my eyes open just a little and despite the breathing tube down my esophagus, I successfully caught the doc's attention. He quickly pushed the nurse away.

" _She's back!"_ The doc shouted. "Don't shock her—Miss Gordon…. Sylvia!"

"MM!" I barely managed.

"Good, thank god..." sighed the doctor. "We're fixing you up, Miss Gordon. Don't you worry. For the rest of the procedure, we'll need you unconscious. This will only hurt a little…."

He brought out a syringe and plunged it into my arm. I protested as much as possible and back to the unconscious side I went.

_Tired…. sleepy…. just a few more minutes,_ I thought. _A few more minutes, please. Then I will get up._

**Chapter 2: I Missed A Lot**

Peppermint. Vanilla.

It was an odd combination of fragrances. But I recognized that it was some of my hand lotion. Why did I smell...

_Oh right…._

Putting two-and-two together, I figured I was in a hospital.

_That explains the disinfectant smells._

I listened to the sounds around before opening my eyes: a woman on the intercom announcing codes varying from emergencies like a code blue to those of irrelevancy such as those instructing hospital staff and visitors to ignore incoming fire drills due to maintenance operations; the slow but hypnotic beeping of my heart rate monitor; the dialogue of a strange soap opera set on a low volume from the television in my room (or I could only guess). And I heard humming—wait….no, it was singing.

" _The fire has gone out_

_Wet from snow above_

_But nothing will warm me more_

_Than my, my mother's love._

_I light another candle_

_Dry the tears from my face_

_Nothing can protect me more than my mother's warm embrace_

_The path ahead is dark_

_So dark I cannot see_

_But I will not fear_

_'cause my mother looks over me."_

I opened my eyes slowly, squinting when the fluorescent lights above dared to blind me. There were eucalyptus plants in the corners of my room—well, that explained _that_ other smell. I felt something massaging my hand. As my vision cleared, I saw that it was Gertrud, Oswald's mother.

She wore an alabaster-white dress from what appeared to be the late 1950's but she certainly pulled it off in a fashion, and her silver curls were pulled back in a bun. She appeared preoccupied with the singing—my, she had a lovely set of pipes. She was rubbing the peppermint-vanilla scented lotion from my apartment on my hand.

Like a mother.

Sitting beside her in another armchair (this hospital spared no expense to make my guests comfortable) was Oswald. He looked disheveled: wrinkled wine-colored vest over the white-collared long-sleeve shirt; the sleeves themselves were unbuttoned at the wrists and pulled back above his elbows; tie loosened. He looked like he might have spent a few days here.

As my eyes adjusted to the lighting, I was able to open them to completion, noticing just how bare the walls and ceiling were in a hospital.

"Ozzie…." I uttered hoarsely.

Oswald reacted. His eyes darted from the bed as he had been staring off into space to me and moved with impressive feat to my side.

Gertrud who grinned at my awakening, only widened her smile: "She's awake! I knew it would work!"

"Mother, would you please let the medical staff know she is awake?" Oswald asked politely.

Gertrud nodded, patting his shoulder. She leaned into him and confided in his ear, "I _knew_ my singing would help her. It always helped you…." She giggled and then left the room.

Oswald returned to my side. Abruptly, he lunged forward and wrapped me in his arms, nearly compressing me into him.

"I thought I'd lost you…." He whispered.

When he drew back, tears rolled down his cheeks. He sat back down in his seat, smiling in relief as he held my hand.

"Can't get rid of me that easily," I teased. I cleared my throat, looking at him. "God, why do I sound like I just ate a bowl full of rocks?"

I glanced around the room again.

"Where am I? What happened?"

"Gotham General Hospital. They intubated you," Oswald answered respectively. With an attempt at ironic humor, he added, "Doctors apparently do that anytime someone comes through the emergency room with a bullet hole through their neck."

"Huh," I said, rubbing my sore throat.

I looked him over. Apparently, my internal curiosity was showing since he glanced at his overall appearance—he had burn marks on his face like he had been electrocuted or hit a few times with a hair straightener.

"It's been a long day. If Mother asks, I—"

"Fell down the stairs?" I offered, smirking.

"Actually, that _is_ what I told her," He admitted, grinning sheepishly.

"Sweet woman, your mother. What was she singing?"

Oswald said with a heart-warming smile, "It's a lullaby she used to sing to me every day when I was a child. It always made me feel better so…. her thinking was that if she sang it to you, you would recover."

"Well, she wasn't wrong. So, since she's out of the room for the time being. Why don't you tell me what _really_ happened?"

"First things first…." Oswald declared, getting to his feet.

He walked around the room to the incredibly clean, porcelain sink, took a disposable drinking cup from the available stack and filled it with tap water. He sat in the armchair Gertrud had previously occupied to sit closer, before handing the cup to me. I thanked him, taking a few sips and clearing my throat once more.

"How do I sound?"

"Better," Oswald noted.

At least I didn't sound like an emphysema victim. I motioned for him to continue.

"Do you remember what happened?" He asked.

I thought for a moment.

"I told Michael Travinsky he couldn't come back to work because you fired him," I recalled calmly. "He was upset, took me hostage, and when shit hit the fan, he shot me in the neck. Honestly, I'm surprised I lived through it."

"You're a survivor," Oswald said proudly, holding his hands out to me, indicatively. "I'm surprised, but very relieved. The doctors were telling Mother that only twenty-seven percent of gunshot victims actually survive, not to mention those shot in the neck have a smaller percentage."

I quirked an eyebrow, curious to my survival.

"Dr. Bryant," Oswald explained without prompting (as apparently my face shown my own shock), "said that the bullet's trajectory passed through, but it did not damage any vital structures. You _did_ lose a fair amount of blood, though."

"Oh…. well, that's good, and bad. Broke even, I guess?" I said, grinning. "Can't have done much damage—I'm able to talk. And I've only been here for, what, a day or two?"

Oswald's smile faded.

_Well, that's never good._

"What?"

I was dreading the worst.

He said nothing.

"Oswald. How long have I been out?" I asked, sitting up.

He quickly lifted his hands to my shoulders and encouraged me to lie back down. I looked at him pointedly. Oswald pulled his chair closer so we could speak more privately. Aside from the fact that we were the only two people in the room, the hospital door had to be kept open in any case I started going downhill. He held my hand as he spoke.

"You've been in a coma, Sylvia."

I stared at him.

"What?"

"You've been out for a few weeks," He said gingerly.

_Holy fucking shit._

"Tell me what happened," I managed, forcing myself to stay calm.

"After Travinsky shot you," Oswald said, his eyes casting down to the aforementioned area indicatively. "You were rushed to the hospital to undergo emergency surgery; you have been in Intensive Care since then. They only just moved you to this 'stable' wing a few days ago."

_Wow…._

"Huh…. Three weeks…."

Oswald smiled in understanding. He didn't expect me to say much, evidently, but was quick to console me: "I've been here mostly every night. So has my mother. And the medical staff have been going above and beyond, looking out for your best interests. So has everyone else."

He gestured to the rest of the room.

Lining the walls of the room were gift baskets, balloons, and get-well cards from god-only-knows how many people—police officers in the GCPD who saw me as a sister because I was Jim's blood relative, and countless others. To lift my spirits, Oswald bent forward, his upper half disappearing from my viewpoint temporarily before he reappeared with a gift basket of his own, filled with flowers, candies, and in that basket was a smaller gift bag.

"You didn't have to. I'm just happy to have woken up with you by my side."

"I know I didn't _have_ to. But you should know me better by now." He said, placing the gift bag closer to me.

Like a child anticipating his friend to open his gift, he waited eagerly.

I sat up a little more and pulled out the violet tissue paper. I laughed when I saw what was inside. Taking it out, I placed in front of me. It was a cotton-stuffed penguin plush doll.

"I get it…." I giggled, looking at him. "Because you're the Penguin."

"I thought you'd find it humorous," Oswald said, grinning widely. "Here, read the card."

I placed the plush doll to my left and opened it.

' _Pigeon,_ ‘it read. ' _You are my heart. You always have been, always will be. And much like my heart, I cannot live without you. I love you._

_Eternally Yours,_

_Oswald._ '

"That's very sweet," I complimented. "Thank you."

I leaned forward and he met me halfway in a tender kiss.

"So, when did you start calling me a 'pigeon'?" I asked, smiling mischievously. "You called me that in the ambulance, if I remember correctly."

Oswald blushed a bright shade of pink.

"Truthfully," He said quietly, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "Never. Not aloud, clearly. Just…in my head, for the past year. And, if I am being honest, some time before that."

_Holy shit, it **has** been a year. We've been dating a year…._

_Bypass_ that _conversation, Sylvia._

"Really? Only in your head?" I said curiously. "Can I ask why? You mean 'pigeon' as in the bird?"

"Not exactly."

Oswald reclined, hands caressing the arms of the chair.

"In the '50s," He explained, smiling shyly as though he was a little embarrassed, "a man would call a woman a 'pigeon', or 'Pidge' for short."

I snickered, "Why would he call her _that_?"

"She was unattainable," said Oswald quietly, more to himself than anyone in particular. As he did, his gaze drifted past me as if he was lost in thought.

He interlaced his fingers together, meeting my eyes as he said pointedly, "Very much like how you are now."

" _Was_ ," I corrected, holding up a finger. "You _have_ me, Ozzie. No one else."

He grinned at my affirmation.

I leaned forward, smirking. "So, you've been going around all this time calling me a pigeon in your head?"

"Well, when you say it like _that,_ it sounds derogatory," He said cynically.

"No, no—I think it's nice." I held up the penguin doll. "Maybe I should find a pigeon plush for Penguin plush. It's only fitting."

"How so?" Oswald asked, tilting his head to the side.

"You have me. I have you. Why should the dolls be any different, hm?"

He grinned, the smile reaching his eyes. And there it was. The look of pure love.

I leaned to the side, placing the gift bag on the floor while placing the penguin doll directly beside my hip. I touched my neck, and I felt the gauze and tape covering it.

"Fucking Michael," I swore, shaking my head. I looked at Oswald. "So, please. Tell me he was gunned down?"

Oswald smiled devilishly, eyes brightening to their malicious tint.

"Of course, he was," He snickered. "Not just by the police."

"Maroni too?"

"Maroni too. That reminds me. Don Maroni told me something interesting the other day when he came to visit…."

" _He_ came to visit?" I exclaimed.

Oswald rolled his eyes. As if to provide testimony to his claim, he stood and stepped over to the wall lined with the several gifts, looking for one in particular. He found it and placed it in front of me. It was a gift bag, much like the rest of the get-well presents. Taking out gold tissue paper, I pulled out a slim, rectangular box. I looked at Oswald inquisitively.

"What was the interesting tidbit he said to you?"

"You may not like it."

I opened the box and it was a charm bracelet with what appeared to be ebony, sapphire, and ruby Koi fish.

"What the…"

"He said _you_ are _his_ Fish Mooney," Oswald said coolly.

Glancing at him, I saw that this statement alone riled him up something awful. The very words came out like they'd been forced out of him. I wasn't too happy about it either since Fish Mooney was the reason Jim had been ordered to kill Oswald and dump his body at the pier and was also the reason my boyfriend limped from place to place…. the fucking bitch.

"Well," I placed the top back over the box. "It's a nice gesture."

"You won't wear it?"

"I won't wear something another man gives me—excluding family members." I told him curtly. "Especially if it's supposed to state that I am anything like Mercedes Mooney. Absolutely not. But the gesture is nice."

I placed the charm bracelet back in the box and in the bag, handing it to Oswald, who appeared satisfied with my answer. He placed it at his feet.

"I'm glad Mike died; he deserved it for what he did."

"I couldn't agree more," He concurred.

"So, what happened to _you_?" I asked, looking him over. "You look like you've been mugged by a heating appliance."

Oswald gave me a look, before glancing over his shoulder. Sensing his paranoia, I wasn't surprised when he stood and hobbled to the door, closing it, before he returned to my side. Instead of sitting in the chair like he'd been doing, he sat on the edge of my bed, while I took another drink of water.

"I've been electrocuted twice," Oswald said offhandedly.

"I didn't realize you were into that sort of thing. Having fun without me?"

He gave me a look.

I gestured to him to continue, saying, "Why were you electrocuted?"

"Arkham patient had it out for Maroni and tried electrocuting the GCPD after he escaped—I just happened to be there," Oswald said cynically. Knowing me, he held up his hand saying quickly, "Jim Gordon is all right."

I relaxed.

"As 'all right' as one could be anyway."

I raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"He was demoted," He said cautiously. "He's been working at Arkham as a correctional officer."

I stared at him.

"WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED WHILE I WAS OUT!" I shouted furiously.

Oswald startled at my projection, holding his hands out to me when I started to get up; he caught my shoulders and gently (but firmly) forced me to lie back against the upright position of my bed.

"What was the reason? Doing his _job_? Like a fucking cop _should_?"

"As the rumor goes," said Oswald skeptically, "He was the overzealous police officer that interrogated Lovecraft so strenuously that the man disarmed Detective Gordon of his firearm, and shot himself with the gun, completing suicide."

"As according to whom?" I challenged.

"The Mayor." He answered—still exercising caution.

"What a horse's ass," I hissed, crossing my arms in a huff. "Where is Jim right now, do you know?"

"As of this moment, I do not. But before you decide to start shouting again, you should know that he was promoted again to Detective by our very own Commissioner Loeb."

"This is way too much information," I mumbled, rubbing my temples. I looked at Oswald pointedly. "Is that it?"

"Of course not. I've not even told you the best part."

I waited for him to speak.

"Fish Mooney and Butch Gilzean are en route to be tortured by one barbarous fellow named Bob, on Falcone's orders." said Oswald mischievously.

"Wh-How—what…." I stammered, trying my best to gather my thoughts. "How-what-now?"

Oswald smiled at my dumbstruck response.

"Do you recall a young woman by the name of Liza?"

"Innocent-looking, pretty; she let me borrow her tide pen," I recollected dully.

_Hold on a minute…._

I felt a little spark in my brain that had nothing to do with the morphine dripping from the IV bag on my right side. I leaned forward and Oswald shared the same mischievous twinkle.

"What happened to her?"

"Don Falcone killed her." Oswald answered gleefully. "Strangled her in front of Mooney."

"Did you tell him she was spying for her?"

"I did. And he didn't believe me at first but the moment he looked at her….it was perfect."

I cradled his face in my hands, grinning until my jaw hurt.

"You're fucking brilliant, Oz," I gushed. "A fucking criminal _mastermind_."

Oswald's smile became sheepish, beaming with the praise. I stood on my knees and crawled to the edge. He momentarily began to protest until I hushed him with a kiss. I parted my lips and he eagerly took the invitation. His arms wrapped around my back. Being unconscious, I hadn't realized just how long it'd been since I felt his touch. The opening in my hospital gown hid nothing from behind and his fingers graced my spine—skin-on-skin. I wanted him right there, to shove all equivocations out the window and just have him in my bed.

Our kissing became fierce, and passionate. My compliments of his intelligence and cunning made him more confident, and god—how I fucking _wanted_ him. I could feel the urgency in my body becoming more than a dull ache; it was screaming for him to take me. My intentions were made clear when I bit his bottom lip and tugged at his belt, pulling him closer to me.

He suddenly withdrew and I looked at him reproachfully.

"We're in a hospital," Oswald said breathlessly, smiling. "You need to _heal_ first."

"You see me dead on the floor?" I inquired sarcastically. "I'm fully healed."

"Not until the doctors release you."

"Baby, I'm not asking for much. Just for you to fuck me in my hospital bed."

"While that is physically possible and a legitimate request," Oswald managed logically (although he appeared to struggle against his own desire to grant my wish) "We must exercise caution."

I sat in my bed, arms crossed, pouting. Oswald tried suppressing a grin at my response as he sat in the armchair to my left.

"You'll recover in no time, Pigeon." He assured softly.

_Pigeon._

_God, why did that sound so great coming from him?_

I couldn't help but soften at the term of endearment. He winked at me, knowing that he found the perfect pet name for me. I drank the rest of my water and placed the empty plastic cup upside down on the penguin plush head, smirking.

"Look," I giggled, holding it out to Oswald. "Now, _it_ is king. Like you."

"Will be," He corrected.

"My King of Gotham," I purred, crossing my ankles and placing the penguin plush on my knees.

"The title just rolls off your tongue."

"Well, get used to it, Love. You'll be that soon enough, I imagine?"

"With enough patience, time, and effort."

"All three things of which you have," I said smoothly, grinning wickedly. "And you have _me_."

Oswald tilted his head, smirking.

"You know," He said, leaning forward. "I recently had a run-in with Victor Zsasz."

I stopped playing with my doll and looked at him, suddenly worried.

"He had a business proposition for you," Oswald stated (that calm, collected, business-like tone only made me want to make a second attempt to fuck him). "When you have fully recovered, that is."

"A business proposition from Falcone's number one hitman himself," I mused aloud. "What can _that_ be about, I wonder."

"Don't be coy."

"What?" I said innocently. "Everyone in Gotham City knows what Victor does for a living. So, being a Gothamite myself, I can only surmise from your data that he wants to talk about homicide." I shrugged modestly, adding, "It's not like I _hadn't_ thought of doing it. Even you can't deny that I enjoy it. A great deal, really."

Oswald nodded in agreement.

"What was the proposal exactly?"

"You would become a contracted hit-woman. You would, in a sense, share contracts. Whatever contracts Victor was given that he did not like, he would give you the opportunity to take them before anyone else."

"And what does _he_ get out of it?"

"That, I am not so sure," He replied suspiciously.

"I'm not working for Zsasz."

"That was my thought as well, but I doubt it was a hiring proposal."

"I'm not working for anyone," I emphasized as I crossed my legs, Indian style. "I'm already employed. Remember? I work for _you_."

"You're a shift-leader at my restaurant."

"You're not just my boss there," I said, gesturing outside to the restaurant namely. "That's just a job I do because…. well, I say 'why not'. But when you become the King of Gotham, I will more than readily kill anyone you ask. And" (I giggled) "You don't even have to pay me for it. Honestly, you can ask it of me now. Now, if that's not a job proposition, I don't know what is."

"That's not a job, Pigeon. That's a _partnership_."

I shrugged saying, "Well, call it what you what, Pengy," (His eyebrows quirked at the nickname) "but I'm just saying: you have me as a full-time go-to girl."

"It has crossed my mind."

"What has?"

"A partnership."

"I'm not very good at managing stuff, Oz. You know that. I don't have the calculating mind to do it. Not like you, anyway. I tend to just live day-to-day. Comes down to it: You're the builder, the problem-solver. It's like a car, you know. Someone gives _you_ a car, you'd find a way to get it taken apart, fixed, upgraded, and probably find a way for it to be sold in a world-class auction fit for billionaire Bruce Wayne. If you gave _me_ the car, I could certainly find a way to break it apart. Now, putting it _back_ together, well…. Let's just say: 'Sorry, Charlie, but that's just the way the cookie crumbles'. You know?"

In the middle of my rant, Oswald watched me with his chin balanced in the palm of his hand, eyes mesmerized. Hearing nothing from him, I felt a little mortified. I looked at him.

"Well?" I said, gesturing to him. "Say something? I'm feeling a little exposed here."

"You're correct. You _do_ have an affinity for destruction and not even I can deny that your blood lust has certainly outweighed my own on—ahem—a few occasions but…. I would think that is what a partnership would need," Oswald said, getting to his feet. He placed my hands between his. "Someone who can rebuild what the other person can destroy. One half to complement the other."

I stared at him.

"Are we talking about the car or something else?" I asked.

"Something else."

His voice was soft, smooth like butter. But there was a part of him that seemed distracted.

"Then you'll have to include me in your thought bubble, because I am _not_ tracking what you—"

"Marry me."

"W-what did you just say?"

Oswald looked just as shocked as I did. He just blurted it out! He moved the chair a few feet from the bed and then awkwardly (if not painfully) got down on one knee, taking my hand in his.

"I'm asking you to marry me," Oswald said, now with more confidence, but I could see that maybe he might faint.

I looked at him, incredulous.

We'd talked about it before, once or twice. But I honestly never thought it would happen in a hospital. Seeing him like this made my heart want to jump out of my chest.

"A 'yes' or 'no' would be very much appreciated right now," Oswald muttered, "I'm feeling a little exposed."

I chuckled, "Do you really _need_ an answer from me? Yes, Oz. I will marry you."

He stood and looked overjoyed. Any happier and _his_ heart might jump out of his chest. I grinned too, wrapping my arms around him tightly. The door swung open and several medical professionals ran inside, leading the pack was Gertrud. They all looked worried and some even looked outraged until I looked at them with the same surprise.

"The door was shut!" Gertrud said, pointing at the medical professionals. "They thought something was wrong!"

"It's fine," I said, looking at the medics. "It's fine—I'm fine."

"Leave the door open, ma'am." The doctor said briskly before leaving.

I mimicked him: "'Leave the door open', eehhh."

Gertrud gave me a look of reprimand, then smiled at Oswald.

"You look so _happy_! What happened?" Gertrud asked.

"Mother…." Oswald said, restraining his joy back a bit so as to not completely spoil the surprise. "I just asked her to marry me."

Gertrud looked at me in surprise then at Oswald.

"Oh!" She exclaimed. "Good! Good! Uh, what she say?"

I laughed, "I said 'yes'!"

And suddenly Gertrud was all screaming and happy. Thinking something bad was happening, the medical professionals that had just walked out came sprinting back in, only to see Gertrud bear-hugging me while Oswald managed to get out of the way so as to not be caught in the python hug himself. The professionals gave us a look of 'seriously, guys?' and then walked out, shaking their heads.

Oswald said sarcastically, "At least we left the door open."

"I know, right?" I muttered, rolling my eyes.

**Chapter 3: Sibling Love**

Alone in my hospital room, I was left with the television hanging on the wall opposite of me for company. Gotham General could lavish my guests with esteemed furniture but when it came to cable, it spared every penny. There was a total of ten channels to choose from: Four of them were Soap Operas, one of them was completely Spanish speaking. The remaining six were divided up between the news, cartoons (for the kids), and cooking shows. I chose the lesser of evils and placed it on the Spanish-speaking Opera—the positive spin on it was that the actors looked like they actually _wanted_ to play the part they were given and every now and then, one of them would slap the other dramatically in the face…. that was the most amusing part for me.

I'd only gotten up once to review the other gifts that had been lined against the wall: A fruit basket from Capt. Essen; milk chocolates from Tomas and Gabe (how sweet); a bouquet of tulips from Jim placed in a vase, much appreciated by Nurse Ally (as she called herself); a book of Sudoku puzzles from Ed Nygma (also sweet); and from Harvey Bullock, he'd placed a bottle of cheap strawberry wine under a vast amount of tissue paper—the decoy was a medium-sized version of Pop-eye, the Sailor Man.

Giving me a Popeye doll was something of a joke, I was sure, but at this moment, I still hadn't figured it out. I figured if Harvey came to visit, I would ask him.

In front of me was a tray—lunch time had arrived. Spoiled by Chef Billy's cooking, I was certain that even _I_ could have made something a great deal more appetizing than what had been brought out to me. Long stalks of asparagus were placed on a plate beside a stiff, crunchy-looking biscuit; canned meat (maybe spam?) was scooped and plopped next to it. The staff called it 'chicken', but I had not been out so long as to forget that chicken didn't come out of a can looking like vagina lips.

Needless to say, I pushed my plate away and was currently eating the strawberry yogurt—mostly, I was eating the yogurt while making an adamant effort of avoiding the fruit at the bottom. When I had eaten half the cup, I drank the amazing refreshments that had come with my lunch: water.

There was a knock against the door frame. I looked up and saw Jim grinning widely at me. Nurse Ally, a young-looking female with voluptuous curves and big brown eyes smiled just as widely saying, "Detective James Gordon is here to see you."

"Cool."

Nurse Ally followed Jim inside, and she looked at my tray. Disappointment.

"You've not eaten anything." She chastised.

"That's a lie. I ate my yogurt."

"That's not nearly enough."

"Well, sue me."

"Miss Gordon, you need to keep up your strength…."

"I _have_ my strength. What I don't have is an appetite. Especially for whatever _this_ is supposed to be." I said, lifting the tray. Even Jim made a face at the meal.

"If you want something else from the kitchen, we can whip something up," Nurse Ally offered kindly.

"Don't make such a fuss. I'm fine." I said calmly, covering the plate once again.

"Miss Gordon…."

"What? I said I'm fine."

Jim stepped forward, smiling: "I've got this."

Nurse Ally sighed, reluctantly taking my tray and walked out of the room, closing the door halfway. I pushed the end table to the side, watching Jim sit in the armchair to my left. It was only then that I realized he had been holding his right hand behind his back—particularly unusual. I gave him a look, but my curiosity was answered as he placed a bag in front of me.

"Tacos," Jim proffered, smiling knowingly at me. "Soft shell, meat, cheese, tomato, lettuce, extra sauce."

"Thank _youuuu_ ," I said happily, quickly burrowing my hands into the bag. "You're a godsend, Jimmy."

Jim reclined back in the chair. He wore his usual suit—not the Arkham correctional officer uniform like I had been expecting—so I assumed what Oswald had told me was true. Not that I ever doubted him, but Commissioner Loeb reinstating a guy like Jim sounded more like a rumor than a fact.

"You're looking better," Jim said gently, watching me eat.

"Well, I feel better. Aside from having a hole in my neck, I'm just peachy."

"Yes…." He muttered. His face was crestfallen, the smile had suddenly disappeared.

"I have a question for you. Two, actually."

"Sure."

"How come you didn't shoot him?"

"Who?"

"Mike Travinsky," I answered airily. "How come you didn't shoot him?"

Jim cleared his throat, smiling cynically: "You were his hostage. He was holding you in front of him, Vee. I didn't have a shot."

"I _told_ you to shoot him," I emphasized. " _That_ was your shot."

"I couldn't take the chance of hurting you."

"Like the way _he_ hurt **me**?"

"You can be angry at me all you want," said Jim sheepishly, "but I'm just glad you're okay."

"No thanks to you."

Jim furrowed his eyebrows at me, like he didn't understand.

"He hurt me," I said, gesturing to the gauze over my neck. "He'd have done it regardless of the circumstances—police or no police."

"Why did he?"

"Why did he what?"

"Shoot you?" Jim questioned. "You said he would have done it either way. What reason did you give him to shoot you?"

I laughed derisively, sitting back against the upright bed.

"I have a real job, James. I work as a shift-leader in Oswald's restaurant. At one point, Mike had been under his employ. He was fired. It was because of this reason that Mike came back at all; he tried getting his old job back. I said 'no'. That was the hump that broke the camel's back. Didn't take much, really."

"Why was he fired?"

"He made a comment about me fucking my boss."

"You _are_ fucking your boss, if you're working in his restaurant," said Jim pointedly.

"Very true," I agreed. "However, it needn't be said. Contrary to what you may think about him, Jimmy, Oswald's a true gentleman. Anything said against me that remotely damages my honor is not only an insult to me, but an insult to him as well. Mike knew this. He was fired because of me."

" _Cobblepot_ fired him," Jim reaffirmed.

"Because of _me_ ," I emphasized, smirking. "You'd be amazed how far he will go to make sure I am taken care of, to defend my honor, to make sure _nothing_ happens to me. And, Jim. I hate to tell you this, but if Oswald had been in _your_ shoes, he would have shot the prick when I asked him to—like when I _told_ you to."

"You would have gotten killed…."

"You could have **tried**!" I snapped. "And look at me! Regardless of your actions, I have been harmed. But fuck that. You hesitated. I told you to shoot him, James. I _told_ you. You should've taken the shot when I told you to!"

"That's not how it works, Vee," He insisted curtly.

"Tell me how it works then. Tell me. What else could have happened, huh? What's the worst that could have happened if you'd have taken the shot? You—what—might have killed Michael? He was a flagrant baboon, a man who brought a gun into the restaurant and _knew_ what he was going to do before the situation ever escalated."

"I could have killed you, though."

"And that would have been fine."

"Not with me."

I frowned.

"What if you _had_ killed Michael?" I asked. "What if you _could_ have killed him? All you would've gotten was a small slap on the wrist for taking down an armed assailant. _Maybe_ some paperwork? What, seeing your sister in the literal hands of life and death, didn't that piss you off?"

Jim glared at me: "You know it did."

"Well, it didn't piss you off enough, it seems. So, what the hell kept you from pulling the trigger?"

Jim looked at me. The _same_ look he had given me when he was only seconds away from shoving the samurai sword into Sionis. During that time, he had glanced at me only seconds before considering it and then after he had met my eyes, seeing me, he had just hopped off the desk and threw the weapon down.

The same look, the same glance, the identical hesitation now shown before me.

"It's the same thing that kept you from killing Sionis," I spoke quietly, more out of my own realization than directly to Jim.

He looked surprised.

I placed the bag of tacos to the side, leaning forward.

"What did you see when you looked at me?"

"Vee…."

"Don't 'Vee' me! You saw something in me that kept you from killing Sionis. Despite _everything_ he put you through putting you in a trap with six men who tried to kill you, _knowing_ you were a cop, _knowing_ they could die. What kept you from killing the man who put your _sister_ in the line of these six guys, huh? Something kept you from doing it. You looked at me, _saw_ me, and then stopped. And the same thing happened with Mike." I said adamantly.

Jim's lips were parted, eyebrows furrowed, eyes glistening with knowing but hesitation. He then drew back, reclining against the chair, and he crossed his arms.

"Don't shut me out, James," I said, my voice hardening. "You _saw_ something in me. It kept you from doing what is necessary…."

" _Murder isn't necessary_! It is _never_ right."

I sniffed, "Says the man who has killed people."

"That was different. That was war."

" _Gotham_ is war," I retaliated. "Gotham isn't black and white, not like when we were kids—it's full of gray, blue, and purple, and _lots and lots_ of red. You should have killed Sionis, Jim, just like you should have killed Mike."

"No."

"'No'?"

Jim grimaced: "You want to know what I saw that day, Sylvia?"

"Obviously! What the fuck have we been talking about this entire time!"

"I saw _you_."

"What do you mean?"

Jim's face softened, but his voice remained detached and stern.

"I saw the difference between you and myself, the line between us." Jim whispered, looking at me endearingly, but sympathetic. "We've walked different paths all the time—I joined the Army, police academy, and you chose…. well, a different path than I would have thought you'd have chosen."

"I've been doing this kind of work since I was a teenager. What other path did you foresee me going down?"

"Dad thought it was a phase."

"Well, it wasn't. And how would he have known? He had great eyesight, but he was also blind half the time. At least where it concerned me."

"Regardless, I realized that there was a line between us. A line I can't cross."

"A line?" I questioned, chuckling. "You think there is a _line_ separating us? There's barely a line. There's barely a _dot_ there."

"You think _murder_ is necessary," He emphasized harshly. "I don't."

"In Gotham, it is necessary."

"It's not right!"

"No one ever said it was!" I told him coldly. "Wanna know what I'd have done. I'd have killed Sionis, man. I'd have killed him because of what he has done to you, to us. You saw what he was—you saw that he was a monster, but you hesitated. You saw Mike Travinsky—he held a gun to my neck, to my _head_ , and you hesitated. If we had switched places and he was holding a gun to _your_ head, I would have shot the motherfucker in the face."

Jim frowned.

"Fine," He said quietly. "You got me. I hesitated both times."

"Tell me why."

"I told you."

"I want you to say it," I demanded. "I'm in a fucking hospital with a hole in my fucking neck. I think I deserve that much. Tell me why you hesitated."

Jim winced before he managed carefully and painfully: "I don't want to become you."

I gave him a look, clearly offended, I was. Then I smiled.

"Thank you for the tacos, Jimmy. They were great," I said calmly. "But you know…. it's not that you don't want to become me. You _want_ to be me; you _want_ to be free. I've always told you that the only difference between us is that I embrace my darkness—tenfold. You're afraid to let it control you, to give in to your dark intentions, and you say you don't want to become me, but I can tell you _want_ nothing more than to **be** me."

Jim's frown deepened.

"You're wrong,"

"Am I?" I challenged.

"Yes."

"Well," I sighed, leaning back into my bed. "You continue to be self-righteous, buddy, but all those years of being a good boy has only shrouded what you have tried to cover. One day, all that anger you have in your brain will come a-calling. And then you will see that I have been right. Until then, thanks for the tacos. I'm glad you came to see me."

"I love you, Vee," Jim said softly, getting to his feet. "If I could, I would turn back time and make it so you would have never been hurt."

His words touched my heart and I smiled.

"I know you would. And I love you too."

Jim took the empty bag of tacos and threw it the trash.

"Do you want a coke?" He asked. "I'm about tired of water."

"Don't tease."

"Bottled or can?"

"Don't make me beg," I joked.

"Bottled, it is."

He bent forward, kissed my forehead, and then walked out of the room. He returned shortly with a bottled coke for me and a Styrofoam cup of coffee for him.

He took a sip and grimaced.

"Hospital coffee isn't gourmet," I laughed as Jim poured the rest down the sink.

"Should've known better, I guess. I've been spoiled by your coffee-making skills," Jim chuckled, sitting in the armchair to my left.

"I have a knack for it, I admit."

"It's an art."

"Speaking of art," I mused. "How's Barbara?"

Jim's face fell and he admitted, "We're uh…We're not together anymore."

I touched his shoulder: "I'm sorry. Did she leave?"

"Yes. She's been gone a while, not answering any of my phone calls. I dropped off my keys at her place a week ago.'

"I'm sorry to hear that. I know how much you love her."

He looked reluctant to talk anymore about her, so I changed the subject: "Oswald told me you were in Arkham—patrolling the criminally insane?"

"Yep."

"How'd that go?"

"Messy."

"Sounds fun."

"It wasn't."

"Enlighten me," I offered. I held out my coke: "Sip?"

"I'm fine."

"You can have a drink! Come on, dork. I don't have cooties."

Jim conceded and he took a gulp of my coke, handing it back to me.

"I never want to go back. The place is a nuthouse."

"Well, you can't complain about the nuts when you're working in a peanut factory," I said humorously. "Who was Jack Gruber?"

"Read the papers, have you?"

"Nope. Oswald pretty much updated me when I woke up."

"He was here?"

"Don't change the subject."

Jim nodded dutifully: "Jack Gruber escaped and tried going after Maroni."

"'Tried'?"

"Obviously, he failed. The man's still alive, isn't he?"

"Did Gruber get caught?"

"Yes."

"Is that how you're able to wear your starched suits again?" I said, smirking. "It's a pity I didn't get to see you in the Arkham get-up. I bet you look like a real boy scout."

Jim looked offended: "I thought I looked okay."

"Sure—that's what you said about your boy scout's uniform. Dork."

Jim chuckled, "Well, the important thing is that I am back in the line of duty. It's good to be back."

"Oh yeah—homicide here, a suicide there. Keeps you on your feet."

"Always."

"Have you been swept off those feet of yours by any chance?" I asked curiously.

"What do you mean?"

"You're a Detective, Jimmy. Good ole 'Detective James Gordon'. So do some detecting and read between the lines. Hint, hint: Are you seeing anyone?"

"That's inappropriate."

"No, it's not. I'm your sister. We can talk about murder and the like, but I can't ask about your relationship status? Doesn't that sound a little weird to you?" I questioned logically.

"Not at all."

I grinned broadly: "Tell me about her."

"I didn't say there was anyone."

"You didn't have to. I know you by now. I knew when you had your first girlfriend, and I know when you have one now. So, tell me about her." I insisted, taking another drink of my coke. "Can't be any worse than that twinkie airhead you were seeing in high school."

"Sylvia…."

"Fine, don't tell me. I'm going to ask you questions, and you just say 'yes' or 'no'." I offered.

"This isn't a game."

"It is for _me._ Humor me—I have a Spanish-speaking Soap Opera on my TV, the only tolerable channel for Gotham General, so please…."

Jim lowered his head in mock surrender.

"Thanks," I chirped. "So….is she tall?"

"No."

"Is she shorter than you?"

"Yes."

"Awesome, height difference is nice." I noted, smirking at him. "Is she blonde?"

"No."

"Redheaded?"

"No."

"Brunette?"

"Yes," Jim said smoothly.

I grinned broadly and asked, "What color eyes does she have?"

"I thought you were only going to ask 'yes' or 'no' questions," Jim recalled smartly.

"Well, I thought I would give you some leeway. This isn't an interrogation."

"I have to disagree with that but go on." He said, getting to his feet.

I looked up at him, then asked, "Green eyes?"

"Not exactly."

"Hazel?"

"Sometimes."

"Do they change colors?" I asked.

"Yes."

"She sounds beautiful."

"She is."

"What's her name?"

Jim smiled secretively.

"Fine, don't tell me her name." I reconciled, crossing my ankles. "Does she work at Arkham?"

"Yes."

"Is she a corrections officer?"

"No."

"Director?"

"No."

"Nurse."

"No." Jim said, raising his eyebrows. He pointed at me playfully: "But you're close."

"Doctor."

He clucked his tongue and winked at me: "Bingo."

"Ooh, look at _you_. Suave Detective Gordon getting in the circle with a lovely female doctor—aren't you just a sly little devil."

"Don't poke fun," He responded, but he smiled in spite of himself.

"How'd you meet?"

"You're breaking your rules again."

"Rules were meant to be broken."

"I disagree."

"Of course, you do," I sighed, rolling my shoulders back. "But that's irrelevant."

Jim gave me a look, and I held up my hands in surrender saying, "Fine, fine—let's not start _that_ argument again." I leaned forward: "Have you taken her anywhere? Date-wise?"

"Not yet."

"Ooh, playing the field."

"Not really."

"I know—I just like teasing you." I admitted, grinning devilishly. "You make it too easy."

Jim's agreement was nonverbal as he took a seat again.

"All joking aside," I said lightly, "Does Barbara know you've moved on?"

"I've not been able to get a hold of her," said Jim seriously. "She's not returning my phone calls."

"She said she needed time for herself, right?"

"Yes."

"Did she say how much time?"

"No. But it's been a few days, and she hasn't tried to get in contact with me. So, I can only assume we're done." He looked at me pointedly: "Now it's my turn."

"Excuse me?"

"You've interrogated me. So now I get to ask _you_ questions."

"I doubt you want to know the answer to any of them," I reassured wholeheartedly. "You have a vein that pops out of your forehead anytime we talk about my relationship."

"I do not."

"You do too. It's kind of funny. It's hard for me to take you seriously when you're pissed. You could always wear a hat to cover it up."

"I'm not wearing a hat."

"Couldn't pull it off, even if you tried."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I try," I said, smirking.

"Back to the topic…."

I shrugged my shoulders saying, "Fine. You want to talk about Oswald? Have at it but let me assure you that I am a hundred-percent certain that you will _not_ like what you hear. And just so you know—if these medical peeps hear you shouting, they'll probably come in full force."

"Duly noted," Jim returned coolly. "I won't get mad."

"Promise?"

"My word."

"Good." I said, smirking. "Then you should know this first. Oswald proposed to me yesterday and I said 'yes'."

Jim's eye twitched.

My smirk just widened ear-to-ear as I said, "How _badly_ do you want to yell at me right now?"

"I'm exercising a great deal of control _not_ to yell," Jim said, his voice was strained.

"Didn't I say you wouldn't like it?"

Jim took a long inhalation before breathing out very deeply, and I chuckled at his response.

"So…." Jim began, clearing his throat. "When…. When's the wedding?"

"Don't know."

"No time or date?"

"Not yet," I informed.

"And you're fine with this?"

"Yep."

Jim sighed with a cringe, "You _really_ want to marry him?"

"I do." I said smoothly. "He makes me happy."

"For whatever reason, he does _that_ at least," He muttered, jaw clenching. He glanced at the penguin plush on my bed, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

"If you want," I said slyly, "when we have our wedding, I can throw my bouquet to your doctor lady friend. Then I can go to _your_ wedding."

Jim chuckled despite his need to scream at the top of his lungs that this was a mistake. I watched him grip the arms of his chair and his eye twitched again. It was hilarious.

"There's that vein…." I said, leaning forward and pointing at his forehead. "There. Right there."

"Vee. Stop."

"What?"

"Stop touching me."

"I'm not touching you," I taunted. "See?" I pointed without touching his forehead. "No contact."

"That doesn't make it less annoying."

"Childhood revenge. And it is delicious."

" _Vee_."

"I'm not touching you. I'm not touching you. I'm not touching you!"

"Seriously." Jim caught my wrist and said pointedly, "That's _really_ annoying."

"Says the same kid that annoyed _me_ when I was trying to read my 'People' magazines," I recalled coyly.

"It's annoying when you're on the receiving end of it," He muttered.

"Like I said, it's revenge."

I poked his head a few times.

"What fresh hell is this," Jim grumbled.

"Well, now you know." I returned, getting back in my bed. "I believe I've gotten my point across."

Jim's anger was lost on him as he couldn't help smiling: "It's nice to know your injury hasn't dulled your spirits."

"I figured if I get another one, it could go right here," I humored, touching the other side of my neck. "Then I could call myself 'Frankenstein'."

I hopped to the counter full of antiseptic supplies and placed two tongue depressors on both sides of my neck. I mimicked the monster as Jim took a gulp of my coke and when he saw me, he snorted.

**Chapter 4: Nygma Visits**

A few more days passed during which I remained in the hospital. The doctor wanted to observe me in recovery, looking out for infection. The curtain was pulled around the bed as he and Nurse Ally stood on either side of me while the doctor unveiled my wound. The gauze and tape were moved, and the it was cleaned with soap and water. Doc said I would be discharged within the next twenty-four hours and in the meantime, I should eat my meals and drink my water. As Nurse Ally pulled the curtain to expose the rest of the room, the doctor left to tend to his other patients and then the nurse shortly followed him after, leaving me to my solitude. I stood to my feet and walked to the sink; above it hung a mirror on the wall, and I observed the damage.

On the right side of my neck, just below the carotid artery was a stitched line, less than an inch. The stitches themselves had been removed. Thanks to my coma that had lasted three weeks (apparently), the wound itself was almost if not entirely healed. Why the doc wanted a 'few more days' of observation was beyond me.

_Liability reasons,_ I supposed.

"Hello, Miss Gordon!"

" _Ah_!" I squeaked, and I quickly turned to see Edward Nygma standing near my bed.

So lost in my musings, I hadn't heard or seen him come in my room.

He looked different without the lab jacket. He wore a forest green sweater over what I could only surmise was a blue long-sleeve and a brown-and-yellow tie. It wasn't one I would expect to look fashionable all tied together, but Nygma pulled it off all right. He grinned widely and I placed my hand over my heart, relieved to know that it was still beating.

"How long have you been standing there?" I questioned (I was thankful that I was given a gown that actually _covered_ my rump).

"Not long," Nygma admitted, smiling innocently. He looked around. "This is a nice room."

"Eh. I'm tired of it." I sat back in bed. "Thank you for the Sudoku puzzles, Mr. Nygma."

"Not a problem, Miss Gordon." He returned smartly, glancing at the TV. "Not many channels to choose from, I suppose?"

"You're correct; but I shouldn't be surprised by that. I didn't know you were coming by."

"Detective Gordon mentioned that you were still in the hospital," said Nygma, sitting down in the armchair most people had taken to occupying, "So when I heard, I thought I should drop by."

"That's sweet. You didn't have to."

"Well, honestly, I thought it was only justifiable."

"What do you mean?"

Nygma leaned forward with a quirky grin: "You're the talk of the GCPD, Miss G. If you don't believe me—"

"—I don't—"

"Well, look for yourself," Nygma chortled.

From what appeared to be hammer space, he pulled out a newspaper and handed it to me.

In big bold letters, the headline read: **Detective's Sister Shot by Crazy Gunman—Survives.**

"With all the tall tales they spin," I scoffed, placing the paper on the end table, "you'd think they would be more inventive with their headlines."

"I said the same thing." Nygma returned with an approving nod.

"So, what are they talking about? The GCPD?"

"All good things. How you're a survivor and 'definitely Jim's sister'."

"I survived what should have killed me," I returned as I leaned back in my 90-degree angled bed. "A thousand cops do that every day, and no one makes big news about that."

"You're a civilian. That's why it's big news."

I shrugged, "If they knew just what I have been through, they wouldn't make a fuss."

Nygma cocked his head to the side: "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing. Nothing you need to worry about."

He appeared unconvinced but dropped the topic.

"How's Ms. Kringle?"

He looked at me, startled: "Who?"

"You're a smart man, Edward. So, don't play dumb," I said, smiling knowingly at him. "I see the way you look at her."

"Ms. Kringle is…. She's fine. One would assume so, anyway," Nygma said, aloof.

My turn to tilt my head to the side: "That doesn't sound reassuring."

"Nothing gets passed you."

"Come on, Edward. I know I am not your closest friend, but I _do_ know when something is wrong."

"Well, in every principality, we're not friends at all," He said pointedly. "You and I tell the occasional riddle and then we go back to business-as-usual."

"True," I agreed. "But if we're not, then why are you visiting me at the hospital?"

"Excellent point," Nygma muttered, glancing at me uncertainly. "I'm not so sure. I wanted to make a friendly gesture…. I suppose. Maybe. I don't know exactly why I came."

"Maybe you wanted to seek out some advice in regard to getting Kristen Kringle?"

Nygma said shyly, "Maybe."

"Kristen Kringle…. that's a funny name."

"I know, right?" He said humorously. "But she certainly is pretty, and smart...and kind….and she smells nice."

Nygma was like a little kid with his school-boy crush. He sat on the edge of my bed, awkwardly making certain that he wasn't sitting on my lap or anything and then looked at me seriously.

"She's dating this guy," Nygma grumbled. " _Flass_."

" _Flass_?"

Nygma frowned: "You know him?"

"I've heard of him. Grapevine, all that crap. She has an _odd_ taste in men, doesn't she?"

"You have _no_ idea," said Nygma, rolling his eyes.

"Have you tried telling her how you feel?" I offered.

"I can't. At least…. Not personally."

"Why not?"

"I get nervous."

"Which is why you _should_ tell her face-to-face." I reasoned.

"That doesn't sound logical."

"Maybe not but take it from me. When guys get nervous while trying to ask out a girl, it doesn't show weakness. I think it's pretty adorable. You just need some confidence, a pep in your step," I advised sweetly. "But if you think you can't say it to her face, then maybe there's a way you can _show_ her. Actions speak louder than words after all..."

"I gave her a cupcake with a bullet in it." Nygma blurted.

"Well, something less morbid," I offered, smiling reassuringly. "It's a nice gesture, but I don't think Kristen is that type of girl."

"Are you?" He said quizzically.

"Pardon?"

"Would _you_ have wanted a cupcake with a bullet in it?"

"I'd accept a cupcake no matter what was in it…. except a finger…. or a maggot," I joked. "Anyway…." I touched his arm. "You need to think of what type of girl Kristen is, and then go from there. She seems like a girl who likes ballroom dancing—"

"—We don't have elegant ballrooms in Gotham—"

"—Maybe she likes the beach—"

"We don't have beaches," Nygma interjected.

"What I'm _saying_ ," I hushed, stopping him from talking, "is that you need to find what _Kristen_ likes. What does she like?"

"Well—"

"And don't say riddles," I said quickly.

Nygma looked at me.

"Not everyone likes riddles, Ed. Don't give me that look, you _know_ it's true. Kristen might like poetry." I offered. "Some girls do."

He interlaced his fingers together, looking at his thumbs in thought.

"Huh. Poetry." He muttered, then he suddenly grinned at me: "Thank you, Miss Gordon!"

"No problem!"

He quickly stood and walked out of the room. I looked after him, curious. What an odd fellow.

_No odder than_ your _fellow_.

In a few minutes that followed, the doctor came back into the room, smiling.

"Am I finally able to leave?" I asked coolly.

"Yes," said the doctor.

"Good."

"But you have to sign these forms."

"I'll sign a million-dollar check for you right now if it means I can leave," I reassured strongly as I took the pen and packet and started signing shit.

The doctor chortled on his way out.

**Chapter 5: Victor And I Make A Deal**

_Bed._

The feeling of my own bed was so good, the moment I fell into it, I fell asleep for about four hours. When I woke up, I coddled myself in a sapphire-blue robe and walked to the kitchen. I didn't know I was singing anything until a voice spoke in the darkness:

_"You have an_ amazing _set of pipes."_

I grabbed the nearest weapon I could, turned on the lights, and saw that I pushed it against the body belonging to Victor Zsasz, who was grinning increasingly in amusement. And I understood why: I held a wooden spoon to his neck. He hadn't even shifted in his position, leaning into the corner of connected counters.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?" I questioned harshly, throwing the spoon in the kitchen sink.

"Calm down. I'm only here on business."

"Yeah, I know what you do for business—so that doesn't put me at ease," I said carefully, stepping closer to the kitchen table where underneath hid only one of my many measures for home security.

Apparently, he read my mind. From behind him, he held up a pistol.

"Looking for this?"

I frowned.

"Like I said," He stated coolly, "I'm here on business. You're not in any danger."

"From whose perspective?"

He chuckled at my wit, stepping towards me and placed my gun on the table. I took it, holding the firearm in my hand loosely in any case he changed the tables on me.

"I'm assuming Penguin passed along my message?" Victor asked hopefully.

"The business proposition, you mean. Yes, he did pass it along to me. No, I'm not working for you."

"Like all messages, they all get garbled somehow. You're misunderstanding the message."

"Am I now?" I challenged.

"Yes. So, with your permission, I'd like to explain," said Victor smoothly.

He pulled out a chair, implying that we were going to have a nice conversation. Hesitantly, I sat while he slid a chair from the table, sitting in reverse.

I was rigid, feeling not at all comfortable with him being in my house when I had all my bases locked. But that didn't stop a man like him—a thief could break into my apartment; the locks could keep a zombie out but an exceptional thief or a man with a will like Victor's could find a way in. For a moment, Victor was quiet as he observed my narrowed eyes, the rigidity of my disposition. He looked around the apartment and smiled.

"You have a nice place here."

"Thank you. You were going to explain?"

Victor smiled even wider: "I'll be blunt. I want you to come work with me."

"In what context? Sharing contracts Falcone gives you? I'm not a hitwoman, Victor."

"You have the potential to be."

"Ugh—I'm so tired of people telling me about my potential."

"Like who?"

"Fish Mooney, Jim…now _you_ ," I said, gesturing to him. "Fish wanted me to be like her, you know. To be a woman in power, to be strong—but she doesn't know that I _am_ strong."

"But _you_ don't have power."

"I don't need it."

Victor chuckled, "And _that's_ why I want you on my team, Sylvia."

I stared at him: "I'm totally lost right now."

He leaned forward. I leaned back.

"I don't want you to work for me or with me, to be honest. But I certainly don't want you working _against_ me either."

"You're a homicidal maniac with exceptional set of target practice skills. Why would you have any reservations about me?"

He said honestly, "I try not to underestimate strong-willed, confident women."

"So, you come into my apartment when I am at my least prepared so you can make—what—a peace offering?" I asked, gesturing to the apartment in general.

Seeing my skepticism, Victor held out his hands like he was about to give up.

"I think it would be a hoot-and-a-half if you would come with me to fulfill a contract. There's good money involved."

"Money isn't my passion."

"So, what is? There must be _something_ you want."

"Why are you pressuring me so hard to join you on your little jobs? What I want to know is this: What's in it for **you**?"

"Suspicious, huh?"

"Overtly cautious," I corrected. "And I have reason to be. You tried killing my brother before, remember?"

"It was a job."

"He's still my family."

"Let's not dwell on the technicalities, shall we?" Victor insisted, splaying his fingers on the table. "Falcone has some pretty tasty contracts coming up—people he needs disposed of and tortured. And you—I've seen how you handled Joseph that day."

I gave him a look.

"You gave me advice on how to break into the back of the store. That worked out nicely—I meant to thank you for that."

"So, return the favor," Victor suggested.

"In exchange for what?"

"Well, you don't want money."

"I don't."

"But," He said slowly. "There _is_ something you should consider before you tell me 'no'."

"What if I _am_ telling you 'no' right now and you're just refusing to listen to me?"

"You're not. Are you?"

I stayed silent. And he grinned widely.

"I can make you into an exceptional killer, Sylvia." Victor persuaded. "With a little training, a different flair" (he eyed my robe) "You could make for a beautiful, unsuspecting weapon."

"And why would I want to be a weapon?"

"Because you want to be able to protect your _true_ source of passion."

"And, in your opinion, what may that be?"

I just wanted to see what he was pitching to me. Perhaps noticing this, Victor stood and seemed to glide to the living room and returned with the picture of Oswald and myself during our first date. He wore a suit; I wore a yellow sundress. We were smiling in the photo.

Victor placed the picture in front of me, pointing to the likeness of my boyfriend: "You want to be _his_ weapon, don't you?"

"How do you know this?"

"A guess. I know your type," said Victor lazily. "You don't want money or power, and you certainly don't give a damn about your own personal welfare. But you care about Cobblepot. And you care about his success. And you care about his happiness. And while I don't know much about you, I know you would do _anything_ for him—die for him, kill for him. And that, in itself, is valuable to _me_."

"Why do I feel like I am being threatened?"

"You're not, trust me. If I was threatening you, you would know."

"You're telling me that you will train me, make me a professional like you so I can protect the man I love with every fiber of my being—and this is purely out of the own goodness of your own heart?" I said skeptically. "I never knew you were such a romantic. Why do I not believe you?"

"You have a cop for a brother, and one _heck_ of a paranoid fellow for a boyfriend—"

" _Fiancé_ ," I corrected immediately.

"— _Congrats_ ," said Victor, holding his hands up in the air and then lowering them to his lap. "You have every reason to be suspicious. But I don't want anything from you except to say that I trained you, _made_ you. You, Sylvia, are a project."

"I'm offended."

"Sorry." Victor said, sounding less than apologetic. "But you asked what I will get out of this arrangement. And that's what I will get."

"Bragging rights?" I scoffed. "You want the right to say you trained me."

"That's all," He crossed his heart with his finger. "And you, in turn, get all the training you'd like from me. Just look at me as your mentor."

"I see you more as being a horse's ass."

"Don't be rude."

"A horse's butt then."

"Please be courteous," Victor said sternly. "I've not insulted _you_ , have I?"

"You haven't. I apologize."

He smiled, getting to his feet: "That is my business proposition."

"How would it work?"

"You come with me on contracts from time to time," He stated, all business-like. "And I show you just how a true professional gets things done. You may back out anytime you want, but you have the same blood as Jim's."

"Meaning what exactly?"

"You can't stand to lose." He winked at me. "So, I know you won't back out. What do you say? Do we have a deal?"

I stood to my feet as well.

He held out his hand.

"Deal."

**Chapter 6: Celebrating Fish's Absence**

Because Fish was gone, Oswald was bringing his mom to the club to celebrate what would soon be his. Because this was a special occasion for him, I dressed up—and I even put on mascara. With a redheaded woman with sky blue eyes in a periwinkle-colored, ankle-length dress as my reflection, I felt more than justified in feeling sexy. I'd decided against the tight, skin-hugging black cocktail dress for two reasons: His mother would be there, and I wanted to hide the knife that was laced to my thigh behind a garter. My ginger roots had grown in the past year to my shoulders and I pulled it to one shoulder.

I heard my phone buzzing on the bathroom counter. I picked it up on the third vibration.

"Sylvia?"

"I'm on my way out," I commented.

Oswald snickered, "It's like you already knew why I was calling."

"I've been getting ready," I said distractedly, "I'll be there soon."

"Good. I sent Gabe to meet you outside whenever you are ready. Is he there?"

I peeked outside the window and saw a car waiting for me.

"I see him."

"Good. I love you."

"Love you too, see you soon."

We hung up simultaneously. I looked at the little penguin plush doll that sat on the bathroom sink and gave it a little pat on the head before leaving the apartment. My white two-inch heels clicked the concrete as I stepped outside, noting the gray atmosphere. Gabe crawled out of the driver's seat and opened my passenger door gracefully.

"Looks like it might rain," I told him.

"Well, it wouldn't surprise me," said Gabe conversationally in his deep baritone.

He closed my door as I was situated and came around the other side, getting in and starting the car once more.

"You look nice," Gabe pointed out.

"Thank you. Is that a new tie?"

He touched his own suit and straightened it with my observation. "Yeah."

"It looks good."

"Thanks." He said, and that dopey grin creased his lips the entire drive to Mooney's club.

When we parked, he did the same as before—he went to the passenger door and opened it for me. I thanked him. He escorted me to the center of the club. The last time I was here, Fish had stabbed Oswald in the hand with a needle pin and I had only been seconds away from killing her.

_Ah memories_.

"Dear?" Oswald greeted, smiling.

"Sorry, just reminiscing," I sighed.

He kissed me on my cheek, and I beamed. His mother was talking to one of his other friendly followers (as friendly as one could be) and I admired how well she looked. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and she wore make-up.

"You tell her about the club?" I whispered.

"Only what she needed to know," said Oswald just as softly. He frowned a little. "She ruined my surprise."

"Guessed it before you could say it, huh?"

"Of course."

"Well, can you blame her?"

Gertrud passed between us, walking over to and insisting that Gabe dance with her.

Oswald watched his mother for a moment before turning to me inquisitively: "What do you mean?"

"You are capable of obtaining the things you want. You wanted a club—you'll get it. She knows it," I said, pointing at his mother. "She may not know _how_ you'll get it or why, but…. she knows your potential. Just like I do."

Oswald beamed at my praise: "You really know how to make a man feel good about himself."

"We _both_ know."

Oswald startled when I licked his ear, and he staggered to get his affairs back in order.

"Not in front of _her_ ," He said urgently, his eyes darting to Gertrud.

I grinned mischievously. "You'll have to kiss me in front of her on our wedding day, you know. Might as well start practicing."

"Kissing is one thing, Pidge. Licking me is another."

"Well, I wanted to lick something else, but I decided against it, so you should count yourself lucky." I said slyly.

He sent me a stern look.

"I'll behave," I promised, kissing him gingerly on the lips, and he returned it.

Gertrud then gestured vigorously for me to join her in dancing.

"I really don't want to dance."

"It's a waltz," She said as though this would make me feel any better.

It didn't.

"I'm not the waltzing type."

"No, no, no—come on…." Gertrud insisted, taking my hand. When I hesitated, she looked at me oddly. "Do you know _how_ to dance?"

"I can dance like a restless third-grader drunk on the firewater of personal achievement," I joked, "If that's what you mean."

"No, no," She giggled. "This is more elegant, classier."

"Then no, I don't know how to dance." I confessed—I could feel my face burning.

I avoided Oswald's gaze.

She and Oswald had a taste for flair, for all things that were sophisticated. Their way of dressing said so and for Christ's sake, Oswald could speak French and he understood German. His mother's apartment alone reflected antique and class. And apparently, she knew how to ballroom dance. So, I could only guess she might have taught Oswald as well.

And then there was me—The middle-class girl who grew up with a lawyer for a father and a soldier for a brother, with half of her childhood spent pickpocketing unsuspecting fuckers because nothing else seemed to entice me. In that kind of situation, I would never have dreamt that I would want to know how to waltz.

Now I wish I had.

Apparently, my face was turning the shade of my hair because Gertrud smiled apologetically.

"I'm sorry, mein lamm, I thought you knew—no matter," Gertrud said, taking my hand. "We shall remedy that! I will teach you."

"Oh god—no…." I began to pull away.

"No-no, come back, there's no better time than now!" Gertrud persisted, and she pulled me back to her.

Gabe was grinning and I saw Oswald trying to hold back a laugh.

"Just put your hands here," She directed, taking my left hand and placing it firmly on her shoulder while she held the other one. And her left hand rested on my hip. "Now…. we go one, two, three… then one, two, three—don't look at my feet…."

"Then how am I supposed to know where I'm stepping?"

"Just look in my eyes, _look_ in them—not down. _Up_."

"I **am** looking at your eyes! But that isn't helping my coordination."

"Just relax into it, my girl," Gertrud said sheepishly. "And don't forget to breathe."

"Oh right," I said, suddenly letting a huge puff of air escape me.

I hadn't even known I was holding my breath to begin with!

"Seriously, Mrs. K, I'm not really—" I began once more but she silenced me with her louder version of " _One, Two, Three_ ".

"You see," said Gertrud as she led the waltz, "every young lady must know how to dance."

I muttered, "One, two, th-three….one, two" (then blurted) " _How_ do you dance when there are _other_ people knocking into you?"

"No one will knock into you," She consoled.

"So, does everyone in your family know how to do this? Fucking _how_?"

Gertrud giggled, looking at Oswald, "She's funny, isn't she!"

"Never a dull moment," He agreed, smirking.

"I pity the youth," Gertrud said, looking back at me. "No one knows how to dance... _properly_."

"That's not true—I can do a mean Macarena. Did they ever teach you the Cha-Cha slide?"

When she looked at me oddly, I wondered if I should have even said anything. My face only burned a little more.

"Okay, now you spin."

"Spin?" I repeated.

"Spin! Weeeee!" Gertrud sang, taking my hand over my head and forcing me into a twirl, then just as quickly, she pulled me back into the three-step count.

"Oswald!"

"You're doing well, Sylvia!" He responded teasingly, "Just remember: 'one, two, three'!"

Gertrud winked at her son before twirling me again.

The violinists were giggling on the stage as they continued the waltzing music. I was only growing more nervous, and for reasons I could not explain. It was so very odd: I didn't mind cutting Timothy the Umbrella Boy in half but the idea of stepping on Gertrud's toes scared the shit out of me.

"If nothing else, you keep in mind," Gertrud mentored. " _You_ never lead. The man leads."

"What if I want to lead?" I countered.

"In this day and age, no one leads," She all but grumbled. "In old times, _men_ led. You are a woman—you don't lead the dance. You lead in _other_ things."

"Well, that's a little provocative," I started but she interrupted with—

"And, _spin! Weeeee!_ "

I made an effort and sang "Weee' with her although mine came out shakier and more nervous.

"At the end of the dance, you dip," said Gertrud.

"Dip?" I repeated.

"Yes. You tip back."

"I thought you said _dip_ , not 'tip'."

"I did," Gertrud returned.

Oswald chuckled when his mother looked at me with just as much confusion when I didn't understand her meaning.

He came to stand in front of me, looking at me as he told his mother, "I'll show her."

"Such a _good_ son. You show her how it's done," Gertrud said proudly, patting his cheek. She smiled at Gabe, saying, "You want to try?"

He nodded respectfully.

Oswald held out his hand, palm up, and I bit my bottom lip when I took it. Giddiness suddenly shunned all the nervousness from my brain. He pulled me close to him, slow and gentle; as learned from Gertrud, I placed my other hand on his shoulder. He smelled nice—like cologne and soap.

His unoccupied hand slid along my lower back; fingers spread. I felt completely hypnotized as he said in the softest of tones, "When I tilt you back, your foot farthest from me lifts up; the other one will stay grounded."

"If you say so, Mr. Penguin," I whispered.

Oswald snickered as he tilted me back. Unused to the dip and loss of gravity, my hand on his shoulder immediately gripped him as I gasped when my head fell back (although gracefully); I felt like I was hanging upside down, and was looking in the direction of the night club's entrance. He pulled me back up and I smiled at him.

"Let's do it again," I said eagerly.

"Your wish is my command." He said, making me blush.

We slow danced, slowly moving our hips in rhythm; a sweet, slow swaying so he didn't have to move his knees as much. In some ways, dancing with Oswald was similar to making love. He had the same intense gaze as he took in my every reaction.

So mesmerizing, so _fucking_ handsome. God, now I really wanted him. Fucking mother of….

"I can see your mom being a dancer in the past," I said, looking over Oswald's shoulder to see Gertrud teaching Gabe the step-count (anything to ignore the burning need between my legs). "She could be an instructor."

"She only teaches those who she considers worth her time."

"Well, I should definitely feel honored."

He said playfully, "As you should."

"And I do," I returned, half-seriously. "Dancing with me in front of your mother—that's a nice honor too. Before you know it, I'll be sitting on your lap."

"One step at a time," He cautioned.

I gave our feet a glance, and snorted, " _Literally_."

He tipped me back. I squeaked and started laughing as I was back to looking at the doorway, upside down, the world spinning. But this time, a figure was standing a few feet away from me; Oswald noticed too, looking up.

"Jim!" He said, smiling widely.

He guided me back up so I could stand comfortably on my feet. Jim looked awkward but attempted a friendly smile as Oswald welcomed him. Just as soon as he had come in, Gertrud noticed, and she strolled leisurely over to us.

"Another _handsome_ man at the party," Gertrud cooed. "I am so lucky."

Ah, so she liked Jim—that was a positive thing!

Oswald introduced them: "This is Jim Gordon, the detective I've been telling you about."

"So nice to meet a friend of Oswald's," Gertrud said sweetly and slyly she said to him, "I'm Gertrud Kapelput."

_Ah…. she likes-likes Jim._

Oswald and I exchanged looks as Jim glanced at me uncomfortably before he took Gertrud's pre-offered hand and swiftly kissed the back of it.

"Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Kapelput."

_Awkward._

"Uh Mother, Jim and I have some very important business," Oswald said gently, and he coaxed her back to Gabe as she muttered, "Oh so sad, so sad".

Gabe quickly pulled her into another little dance, and I watched them briefly before turning to see Jim looking at us oddly.

"It's a little early to be celebrating, don't you think?" He muttered.

"Well don't just stand there. Sit," Oswald encouraged, ignoring his warning, and gestured to one of the tables.

"This won't take long."

"I insist. _Sit_." Oswald said eagerly.

Jim did as he was asked but gave me a glance as soon as he sat.

"What?" I demanded. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Are you sure you should be here? He and I are talking."

"And your point is?"

He began to complain.

"Don't worry, Jim. Sylvia is in regular attendance for these types of discussions," Oswald said calmly, glancing at me with an endearing smile.

"That's not very reassuring," Jim said, looking at me pointedly.

"Whatever business you have to discuss with him, you can discuss in front of me," I said smoothly, taking my own seat beside him and crossing one leg over the other.

Jim gave Oswald a look.

Oswald said comfortably, "She means well."

"Well, I don't want her overhearing." Jim emphasized bitterly, glancing at me once more.

"Then you best speak _very_ quietly so I don't hear you," I said sarcastically.

Seeing that I was a lost cause, Jim surrendered.

Oswald smiled at the two of us before turning to him: "I'm so very glad you called, Jim Gordon. It has been too long since we last saw each other. I was thinking you might have forgotten about me."

"How _can_ I," Jim muttered as he sent a bitter smile towards me, which I returned ever so sarcastically. He said to Oswald, "I need a favor."

And Oswald's face just lit up with glee.

"Do you know a Narcotics Detective by the name of Arnold Flass?" Jim queried.

Oswald nodded, "I've heard the name."

"I'm investigating him and his crew for murder, but I've hit a wall. He's too well-connected. I figured since Don Maroni runs the drug trade, you could find somebody with the goods on Flass. But—"

"Shh!" Oswald hushed. "Say no more. Favor is done. I'll make some calls."

"And what do I owe you in return?" Jim asked suspiciously.

"Friends don't owe friends, silly," He said, smiling happily. "They just do things because they want to. Because they're friends."

"Nobody gets hurt."

"Of course. No one gets hurt," Oswald reaffirmed.

And when the deal was struck, Oswald smiled again, and he offered to commemorate the occasion with a toast of champagne.

"So, you're a part of this kind of work now, are you?" Jim questioned as he and I watched Oswald fulfill his promise to his mother by dancing with her. It was another slow dance; they kept a reasonable amount of space between them.

We stood as he drank his glass of champagne.

"Well, not to drag your name in the mud, but _you_ are the one who came to him for this kind of **work** ," I reasoned coolly.

"Are you going to be the one he sends to get information on Flass?"

"No."

"He's told you already?" Jim asked, glancing at me.

"You're interrogating me again," I reminded him as I poured a glass of champagne for myself. "And you know how much I despise that."

"That's not an answer."

"Whatever. Anyway, it's a 'no'. I'm not going to be the one who gets the goods on Flass, but not for reasons you would think."

"What reasons do you have?" questioned Jim, glancing at my attire. "You're not exactly dressed for the occasional mugging."

"I'm so happy my work amuses you," I said cynically. "I could poke fun about how you're playing 'Clue' _and_ getting paid for it. But I don't. Anyway, don't worry about me: I can kill a man just as easily in a dress as I could in a jumpsuit."

"Nice to know," said Jim, rolling his eyes.

Sensing my irritation, he dropped the topic.

"Do I want to know what I walked into earlier?"

I grinned broadly: "I don't know. _Do_ you?"

"I'm honestly afraid to ask."

"Well, at least you're honest."

Oswald finished his dance with his mother, who had resumed her little dance with Gabe, her favorite student, and she began to sway to the violin's slow, melodic tune.

Jim suddenly jumped and I startled, looking quickly at him. He pulled his phone from the pocket of his pants, glanced at the caller ID and sighed, "I have to go."

He kissed my cheek: "I'll see you later."

"Yep."

He left quickly without another word to anyone else. Oswald looked at me curiously, and I shrugged.

"Work, probably."

"I see," He mused, smiling. "He's a busy man, isn't he?"

"I've never known him to be any other way," I said casually, before drinking the rest of my champagne, then I poured another glass, adding with an afterthought: "I met with Victor."

Oswald's ears perked at the name.

"Or rather," I said quietly, "he met _me._ In the middle of the night….in my apartment."

Oswald narrowed his eyes, saying with an edge to his tone, "And what happened?"

"It wasn't anything like that. Strictly business. But I think it's interesting that your first thought was one of infidelity. Rest assured, if I ever have the urge to cheat on you, _you_ will be the first to know."

"How thoughtful," Oswald said with a sarcastic smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Of course, I never would do such a thing," I comforted, rubbing his forearm. "You know that."

I leaned in and kissed him. But he didn't reciprocate. Not yet defeated, I pushed my lips against his bottom lip, my hand on his shoulder fell to his chest; taking the collar of his jacket, I pulled him closer to me.

"You _do_ know that, don't you?" I urged, looking at him reproachfully.

Oswald glanced at me. I couldn't even begin to wonder what was going through that beautiful brain of his but whatever suspicions, whatever the paranoia he was feeling seemed to break down and my insistent display of affection pulled him through it. His eyes—shining brilliantly in the red lighting above—only appeared that much more soulful. And it felt like he was searching my own, to seek out the smallest lie.

I cradled his face in my hands.

"Forgive me if I think badly of you," Oswald said apologetically. "But I _have_ seen the way other people look at you."

"And do you see how I look at them?" I returned patiently. "I _don't_ see them. I only see you."

He turned his head ever so slightly, so he nuzzled my palm with his mouth, kissing my right hand.

"The others are just wallpaper."

Oswald nodded, and seeing that reassurance, I smiled. He kissed me again. And it was only broken naturally when we glanced up to see that Gertrud had taken to the stage and started dancing, a small sway here and a twirl there.

"You said you had business with Victor?" He asked, his voice business-like once again.

"Regarding that proposition you mentioned earlier in the hospital. He wants to train me, to make me a professional killer. Like him."

"And did you find out what **he** wants in return?" Oswald questioned calmly, although there was still a possessive edge to his tone.

"He wants nothing **I** can give him. More or less—He's just looking forward to the bragging rights, to say that he taught me. Apparently, he thinks I can be one hell of a threat."

"Are you thinking of doing it?"

"If it makes me sharper, deadlier—then I'm all in."

Oswald looked reluctant to speak about my working with Victor. His lips were pressed together tightly, and he said nothing in return. His silence wasn't reassuring. I touched his jacket, fidgeting with the little buttons, and moved myself closer to him.

Oswald thought for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"When do you start?"

"Couple hours. Or, at least, that's the plan," I said gently. "Falcone wants Victor to check on Bob, make sure everything's ship-shape with Fish and her punishment. Victor wants me to come along, a job orientation, so to speak."

Oswald placed his hands around mine, and he avoided my gaze. His jaw flexed as he contemplated this decision.

"I _want_ this," I implored. "I never have wanted to do something so badly in my entire life. But I don't want there to be any bad blood between _us_."

He was silent.

I said softly, "Do you trust me?"

He kissed my hand. "I trust you, Pigeon."

"Thank you."

"Anything for you," Oswald promised. "Do you have to go home and change?"

"Yeah," I said reluctantly. "Do you need me to bring your mom back or anything?"

"No, I'll ask Gabe to do it. She seems to have grown fond of him."

"Do you need anything from me?"

"Just be careful, Sylvia."

"Will do."

I left the club to change out of my outfit and into something—as Victor instructed—with a different flair.

**Chapter 7: Bob Is Dead, Flass Is Arrested**

I wore comfortable jeans, a purple tank top under a black leather jacket, and even more comfortable tennis shoes. I painted my eyelids with periwinkle eye shadow and winged eyeliner. Seeing this new image of myself in the mirror only sharpened my confidence. My ginger locks were pulled into a ponytail; damn hair had grown past my shoulders over the year and I still hadn't decided whether or not I should cut it. Around that time, there was a knock on the door.

"It's open!"

Upon my command, my guests entered.

Victor led two women inside. I looked at them suspiciously, lowering my hands to my side as Victor closed the door. He was dressed in his usual black leather attire, and his female counterparts mirrored him in the same style.

"Sylvia," greeted Victor, "these are my girls: JJ and Al. Girls, Sylvia."

JJ was an Asian girl, standing at or a little taller than my height. She had one heavily marked eyebrow; the other was shaved off; a great deal of her body was covered in leather with the exception of her face and her legs, wearing fishnets instead, and impressive combat boots. Presenting herself to me, she didn't smile, and she remained poised, her hands interlaced behind her back, like a soldier.

Al was taller with beautiful bronze skin, and a buzzed caramel-colored hair cut; she wore a black pantsuit and the V-line cut deeply into her valley, showing off the soft outline of her breasts. This woman wore a dragon-shaped earring on her left ear; the right had three piercings in her earlobe. Like the other one, she didn't smile either.

Both women carried handguns.

"You'll see them from time to time," said Victor smoothly, indicating the girls.

"They're not full-time?" I asked skeptically, glancing at JJ.

"I have a life outside of homicide," She said, smirking.

"What do you do?"

"I freelance as a hit-woman."

I stared at her.

"Isn't that the same thing?" I asked, looking at Victor quizzically.

"No," She answered for him. As if this was the most obvious answer in the world.

"Well then…." I muttered uneasily. "I'm sorry if I offended you."

"You didn't," JJ assured firmly. "I get plenty of contracts, but Victor gets the more interesting ones. So, I just go for the ride."

"Huh. What about you?" I asked Al.

She grinned pleasantly: "I have a bakery."

"Where?"

"Outside of Gotham."

"Cool, I can dig that."

"Tell us about you," JJ said coolly. "What do you do?"

"Nothing much," I said, shrugging. "I organize staff work schedules in a restaurant owned by my fiancé….and occasionally work for Maroni, but—"

JJ and Al immediately raised their guns to me.

"Whoa…." Victor warned, and he placed a hand on their arms, lowering their weapons as the girls looked at me shiftily. "What did I just finish saying? She's on our team, ladies, remember?"

"I guess you don't like Maroni," I said smoothly, crossing my arms. I looked at Victor: "You didn't tell them who I was _before_ introducing us?"

Victor smirked: "I thought it would be fun."

"Glad you're happy then," I scoffed, walking into the kitchen to pour myself a drink just to take the edge off.

If I was going to be working with trigger-fingered women, I was going to need a little extra encouragement _not_ to hurt them.

Victor frowned, walking two paces over before he took the wine bottle from my hands and placed it on top of the refrigerator.

"Why the hell did you do that?" I demanded curtly, glaring at him. "You can't just take shit out of my hands—that's fucking rude."

"I need you _sober,_ Sylvia," Victor said strictly. He took the bottle and placed it on the lowest shelf in my refrigerator, closing the door. "And I didn't tell them you were working for Maroni, because last I checked, you _weren't_ working for him."

"I'm not working for him, but I prefer for him to think that I do. I figure I might as well conform to the idea while I can still play ignorant."

Victor chuckled darkly, "That's stupid."

"Well, sue me." I sighed, leaning against the refrigerator. "The longer he thinks I am playing his game, the safer I am."

" _Don't_ you work for Maroni?" JJ asked, tilting her head to the side.

"Honestly, no."

"Then who do you work for?"

"Technically? Oswald."

"Who?"

"Oh right," I muttered. "You don't know him by that name. Sorry. I work for Penguin for the most part."

Al laughed, " _That_ little creep? Why—"

I yanked a counter drawer open, grabbed a steak knife, and shoved the blade against her neck, my other hand behind her head to keep her in place. Three seconds following, JJ cocked her gun, aiming it at me, while Victor didn't react; instead, he seemed content to lean against the kitchen counter.

" _Whoa_ …I..." Al mumbled as she tried to step back, but I kept her in place.

"Do _not_ ever insult Penguin in front of me…" I said dangerously.

"She didn't know," Victor said lazily. "Just let her off with a warning, all right?"

"Fine." I tossed the knife into the sink.

"There ya go. Now aren't we all just happy friends again?"

JJ and Al glared at me. I crossed my arms, looking at Victor, who checked his watch before saying, "All right—It's show time!"

I followed him while the others kept a close eye on me.

An hour later, I wrinkled my nose at the warehouse that Victor had driven us to. From the outside, it was nothing impressive. I didn't know what I had been expecting, but it certainly had destroyed any imagination of a torture chamber.

"Falcone sent Fish _here_?" I asked Victor as I followed him into the building.

"He's a simple man, really." He said monotonously. "Doesn't really ask for much."

I glanced up at the ceiling. There were chains hanging from the beams. I didn't want to ponder why they were up so high. JJ and Al followed on either side of Victor; I, on the other hand, kept my distance. Under a swinging circular lamp was a body on the floor and no one in the chair.

As we approached, the man moaned as he lied face-down. Victor stuck out his boot and turned the man on his back. He was bleeding from the nose and looked like he had gotten beaten up by a downgraded version of the Hulk.

"Oh my," Victor drawled sarcastically. "What happened here?"

"Call…." The man struggled. "Call Falcone."

Victor said pointedly, "No kidding" before he shot the guy in the head. He turned to me. "That was Bob."

"I gathered that," I replied glancing at the now-dead body of the torturer. "Which means Fish is gone."

"Yep. Falcone isn't going to like that."

"Fuck him—No disrespect," I said quickly when Victor glared at me. "But we need to find Oswald. Fish is vengeful and she'll be looking for him. And I know where he is."

Victor wordlessly agreed and he followed me out to the car. I held out my hand for the key and he gave it to me. The girls crawled into the back seat and their doors were not even shut before I revved the engine and smashed my foot on the accelerator.

Victor glanced at me, observing my pursed lips and trembling hands as I drove.

"I can feel you staring at me." My voice shook as I spoke. "What?"

He said with much dread, "You're not going to get all needy and worried on me, are you?"

We were back at the club in half the time it had taken to drive to the warehouse. I pulled my own gun out from the back of my jeans, looking at Victor pointedly.

"Fish wants to kill Oswald. I'm not worried." I cocked my gun. "I'm fucking pissed."

Victor grinned widely as he got out of the car with me and they followed me into the club. I was several feet ahead (thank god for wearing shoes instead of heels). When we arrived, I saw Oswald on his knees in front of Fish Mooney and her gorilla cohort, Butch Gilzean. Fish wielded a metal bat and she pulled it back behind her to swing.

Coming up behind me, Victor shot his gun at the ceiling. Fish and Butch looked behind them in surprise. Seeing me, Fish gritted her teeth in hatred.

"Looks like 'Mooney's' is the place to be," Victor said pointedly.

And a fire war started. Bullets flying. People dodging from tables, to walls, to chairs. It was almost a miracle that Oswald didn't get caught in the crossfire. In less than a minute, Fish and Butch were on their feet and out the back door. Victor looked at me.

"Coming?" He asked, gesturing for the girls to follow.

"I'm staying behind in case anything else happens," I said breathlessly, reloading my gun.

"Suit yourself."

He left with the girls to go after Fish. From the ground, Oswald looked up at me like he wasn't sure how I had gotten here and why, perhaps, had I come, armed and dangerous with Victor as my back-up. I smiled simply at him, holding out my hand to help him up. He took it and sat in the nearest chair, rubbing his face. There was a nearly empty bottle of Chardonnay on the table; I poured the rest of it in a glass and handed it to him.

"Are you okay, Ozzie?" I asked gently, sitting and then leaning back in my chair, opposite of him.

"I'm fine," He answered briskly.

He tossed the drink back, setting the glass on the surface.

"Partying hard, huh?"

"I _was_ ," Oswald grumbled, glaring at the back door where Fish had disappeared. He glanced at me: "I'm assuming 'Bob' is dead?"

"Dead as dead can get."

"What's the point of being 'the best in the business' if he's so easy to put down?" Oswald questioned harshly, glaring at the empty glass.

"Well, hopefully Victor will take care of her."

"Yes. Hopefully." He muttered. Still glaring. Then he said to me, "You were with Victor the entire time?"

"I said I would be."

"How did he know to come here?"

"I led them here. When I saw that Bob was disarmed—"

"—I thought he was dead—"

"—That came after," I corrected. "He was alive when we were there, but only barely. Victor shot him."

"Why did he do that?"

"Loose ends?" I guessed, crossing my leg over the other. "I don't know. Maybe he just wanted to kill the guy. Bob didn't do his job; he let Fish escape, so I think Victor did the guy a favor. If he hadn't killed him, Falcone would have."

"And if Victor doesn't get Fish back?"

"I can't determine what will happen. If she's smart, she won't come back. She has no men, no land, and Falcone wants her dead."

Oswald nodded slowly, taking in the information. A moment passed as he observed my attire.

"What are you wearing?" He questioned, gesturing to my clothes.

I said carelessly, "I threw it together at home. I was going to wear the cliché with boots and leggings, but I tried it once and never did it again. Besides, I can't run in heels. But everything tends to happen in its own time. Like this shit with Fish."

Oswald sighed in annoyance: "I have a feeling you're trying to tell me something."

"I am."

"Then _please_ , get to the point!" He hissed, rubbing his temples.

"I will in my own time." I said calmly, although his snappy remarks were getting hard to ignore.

"Oh, for the love of—"

I interrupted him as I continued with my story and he sat back in his chair, looking at the ceiling.

"In my senior year of high school, I went to the prom. I had on this long dress, and I wore stilettos. While drinking punch with a few of my lady friends, some fucker came up behind me, slapped my ass. I saw his face only for a few seconds, so I tried running after him."

"Did you catch him?"

"Not initially."

"Then **why** , pray tell, are you telling me this!" Oswald said impatiently. "If this is some metaphor to explain how to deal with Mooney, would you just _skip_ the narrative and get to the conclusion?"

" _No_." I chided, leaning forward. "I will _not_ skip it. Now" (I continued, regaining my patience) "As I was saying, I didn't catch him—not initially. Too many people in the crowd, the lights were terrible. I was pissed off, of course. Some weeks later, in the middle of the class, in the hallway, I started screaming. When one of our teachers came out, he asked what had happened. I told him the guy had groped me."

Oswald stopped staring at the ceiling and looked at me, startled.

"He was eighteen while I was seventeen, so he became a sex offender for touching a minor."

He stared at me: "So the point of the story is….?"

"The _point_ of the story is that Fish may have evaded _now._ But karma's a bitch. She'll get what she deserves. Until then, don't worry about it."

He gave me a look. " _That's_ your point? _That's_ your advice? 'Don't worry about it'?"

I stood and took his hand: "Come with me."

"Where are we going?"

"Home. You're inebriated, you're tired and irritated, so I'm bringing you home to sleep it off."

"I am not _drunk_!"

"Don't argue with me, Oz. I've had a very long day," I cautioned, pulling him up to his feet.

"You _are not_ taking me anywhere. I'm staying right here," He pouted, sitting back down.

"You're acting like a child."

"If I'm acting like a child, then that makes you a pedophile and I will damned if I am going _anywhere_ with a sexual deviant."

I raised my eyebrows at him. I hadn't expected _that_ response, anything but that honestly. And it had taken me by surprise.

"Come with me, Oswald." I attempted a gentler approach, taking his hand. He gave me the dirtiest look possible.

"I'm not going anywhere with you. You can just leave."

_Kind approach is out the window._

"You can _not_ sit here all night. You're coming with me whether you like it or not." I said sternly. "And trust me—it will not be the first time I have had to drag my family out of a club."

"Unhand me, woman!"

I started taking his arm and he started cursing like a storm.

"You can say all you want, babe, but watch the tone."

"I'll talk to you how I _want_ to talk to you!"

I glared at him and he glared right back.

"All right. I guess I'm dragging you." I sighed reluctantly.

I took his arm and pulled him out of the club. After fighting for a few minutes, he surrendered Despite his grumpy attitude, he allowed me to lead him out of the restaurant and I drove home.

Oswald was sound asleep under the covers. He was mumbling, but the words weren't recognizable. He turned on his side, pulling my pillow closer to him and nuzzled it. I closed the bedroom door with the smallest 'click'.

I had arrived at the GCPD station only a half-hour after putting Oswald to bed, and the station itself was like a home away from home. There wasn't much order there since the Waynes had been killed, but despite the corruption of the police and other officials, it was still home. First entering, I saw several people crowding a desk, like they just _couldn't_ step away. They surrounded a large, stocky fellow who had a great deal of facial hair and smelled like cheap musk.

I held a tray carrier with three coffees and as I walked by, the man spoke to me in a grating voice.

"You got a nice wiggle there, baby."

I stopped and turned.

"Detective Flass," I greeted politely.

"Ooh," He drawled. "You know my name, huh? I don't know yours. I don't think we've been properly introduced.

His cop buddies around him snickered.

"You don't need an introduction," I replied coolly. "And even if you did, I am certain I would not want it."

Flass raised his eyebrows at me.

"Ah, I recognize that hateful tone," He chuckled. He bounced himself off the desk and strode towards me. " _You_ must be the mutt's sister."

I dropped my polite facade immediately: "I beg your pardon?"

"I heard you can be a bit of an ice queen."

I scoffed before rolling my eyes and walking away. I saw Jim sitting at his desk and placed a coffee on it, smiling when he looked at me with surprise.

"Thanks," He said gratefully.

"No problem. Where's Nygma? I got him one."

"Forensics Lab."

"Thanks."

"Sylvia…."

I looked at him, stepping back.

He said sincerely, "How have you been?"

"Fair. You?"

"Fine."

"Is that all?" I asked curiously. "No arguments to be had. No cases to discuss?"

He patted my hand, saying, "Sometimes I just want to check on you. Isn't that what brothers do?"

"They do," I confirmed. "But it's odd when you do it."

I patted his head with my free hand, walking on as he looked after me curiously.

I opened the door to the forensics lab and saw Edward Nygma sitting on a stool, wearing his usual lab jacket, looking through a microscope at what appeared to be his lunch. Curious, I strode over to him and placed a latte in front of him. He glanced up and smiled.

"You know," I said smoothly, "if you told the guy to leave out the onions, they'd probably indulge you."

"Surgically removing them can be quite relaxing," Nygma quipped.

I took a seat beside him, asking, "So how did it go?"

"How did what go?"

"The poetry—you know, with Kristen?" I offered to jog his mind. "How did it go?"

"Well," sighed Nygma. "First, I was excited when I gave Ms. Kringle the letter, and in between the moment I handed it off and the time she read it, I bounced between hopeful optimism and suicidal pessimism. I was humiliated when I found Detective Flass and his colleagues mocking my poem I had given to Ms. Kringle..."

"Edward, I'm so—"

"Wait," said Nygma quickly. "I'm not finished."

"Oh…?"

"As I was sitting here, Ms. Kringle visited me and apologized for the hideous display and said that my poem was, in a word, 'thoughtful'." Nygma finished, smiling at me.

I stared at him.

"So…." I began slowly, "how do you feel now?"

Nygma let out a sigh and said happily, "Pretty good!"

"Oh, good!" I congratulated, patting his shoulder. "I'm so happy for you."

" **This is not your house**!"

Nygma and I glanced at each other, startled, and then as we heard the commotion coming from the main lobby, we both headed out of the office to see what it was about. He remained on the balcony while I walked out, looking on.

Jim stood in front of Detective Flass, who looked at him like Jim was already defeated.

"This isn't your house," Jim repeated, his voice was hard. "You're a drug dealer and a murderer. You don't belong here. You don't deserve the badge."

Flass snickered, looking at his cop buddies, all of whom were grinning like simpering fools. I crossed my arms, side-stepping a few officers who looked as though they might rally with Jim.

"Can you believe this crap?" He said skeptically. "How long have you been here? A few months? Why don't you come preach to me in five years?"

_Jim equals 'challenge accepted'._ My brother turned to the rest of the audience, all of the police in and out of uniform who were watching the scene unfold.

"He murdered Leon Winkler!" He addressed everyone. "An innocent man who **trusted** us! Who trusted _this_!" He held up his own badge.

And a few of the officers nodded in agreement, murmuring.

"Enough to step forward," He continued, looking at Flass disgustedly, "to help us solve a case. A man who died so Detective Flass could protect himself."

"IA ruled it a suicide," Flass dared to remind them.

Jim announced to the station: "I'm arresting this man."

"You get out of here. I'm _protected_."

"You can help me, or you can try and stop me either way," Jim continued as though he hadn't heard Flass, "I'm doing my duty."

Three officers stepped forward to Jim's rally.

Flass immediately became defensive, snapping, "Hey! Back off! I'm protected!"

"Shut up, Flass."

I raised my eyebrows, surprised as Jim who turned to see Captain Essen approaching, saying, "Arnold Flass, you're under arrest for murder."

As she cuffed him, Flass was protesting the entire time, even as Alvarez read him his rights. Watching Flass get put behind bars made me smile. The others who were resentfully eyeing my brother slowly backed off and went somewhere else to chill. I looked at them all then patted Jim on the back.

"You're just taking them down one fucker at a time, aren't you, Jimmy?" I said, grinning widely.

"If you're not careful, you might be in there with him," said Jim half-seriously.

"Don't worry about _me._ I have my bases covered. Besides…." I leaned forward and challenged, "if you had a pair _that_ big, you'd have arrested me a long time ago. Enjoy your coffee."

He caught my wrist and I sighed tiredly.

"I'm being serious. Watch your back. Flass has a lot of powerful people backing him…."

"Like the Commissioner?"

"Probably higher than that."

I smirked saying, "Like I said, I have my bases covered. No need to worry."

"You sound confident."

"That's because I am. Do you know why?"

Jim waited.

"I have you for a brother, a one-of-a-kind friendship with Victor Zsasz, _and_ I am engaged to Don Maroni's right-hand man. No one is coming after **me**. Now, if you'll excuse me, as fun as this day has been for me, I have to get home to my fiancé. Good work arresting that guy," I congratulated. "Serves him right for making a pass at me."

"Pass? When did he make a pass at you—"

"Good night, James!" I called over my shoulder on my way out.

**Chapter 8: Maroni Knows**

A/N: ** _TRIGGER WARNING_** : There's a very graphic, very disturbing non-con scene in this chapter that all should be aware of (between my main character and another OC). If you have ever experienced sexual assault and/or rape and are triggered by such scenes, I request and encourage you to bypass the scene (you'll know when it's coming). Of note, I do _not_ condone rape as it is illegal, and I find it repulsive. It was placed in my story for character development of both my OC and Oswald and for future plot purposes. Read at your own discretion. (For what it's worth, Sylvia gets revenge in the same chapter.)

Cracking eggs over a pan…. the sound of bacon sizzling…. the smell of buttery, flaky biscuits baking in the oven.

Breakfast was no doubt my favorite time of the day, especially first thing in the morning. It was close to eight o'clock. I was dressed for work in a knee-high black skirt and a red-long sleeve shirt. I woke up in such a wonderful mood, I had even taken it upon myself to wear three-inch heels—I doubted I would be running anywhere at work.

Shania Twain's ' _Man! I Feel Like A Woman_ ' was playing on the stereo and I wiggled my hips to the extra dancy parts while being careful _not_ to flip the bacon into the ceiling. In the bathroom, I heard the shower turn on; Oswald must have woken up.

I started _really_ getting into the song and when I flung my egg out the window, I had to stop and put my priorities back in order while I giggled, turning off the stove.

Oswald came into the kitchen, looking at me oddly.

"You're never this happy in the morning," Oswald noted, standing next to the table.

I turned off the stereo via the remote, sitting the latter on the counter and grinned widely at him. His suspicious remarks made me chuckle.

I placed a plate of breakfast in front of him.

"Milk or orange juice?"

"Either one," Oswald muttered, sitting down.

I placed a glass of milk in front of him while I sat at the table as well.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"No," I returned, smiling. "I've already eaten."

"When did you get up?"

"I've been up for a while."

Oswald looked at me curiously, saying, "I didn't even hear you come to bed last night."

"No, you didn't. I visited a friend at the GCPD and then came home shortly after. I didn't want to disturb you, so I slept on the couch."

"'Friend'?"

"I gave him some friendly advice on how to get his lady crush to notice him," I explained, sitting back in my seat. "He's been pining after this records custodian for a while now. I figured I'd help the love blossoms bloom quicker than later."

Oswald ate a bite of pancakes, listening to me.

"What do you get out of it?" He questioned.

"Get out of what?"

"What do you get in exchange for helping this friend of yours?" He clarified.

"It's like you told Jim, honey. Friends don't owe favors. They help each other out because they're friends." I reminded. "Edward is a shy type. He works in Forensics, deals with a lot of the nitty gritty. Doesn't have many friends. The police officers regard him as a loser, but I think there's more to him than what meets the eye."

I added as an afterthought while smiling at Oswald, "Reminds me of you, actually."

He glanced up at me pointedly. But I didn't elaborate.

I rounded to the counter and collected myself a cup of coffee, pouring milk halfway to the brim and added a shot of expresso, then returned to my seat.

"By the way," I said conversationally. "Jim says 'thank you'."

Oswald ate a bite of egg: "For what?"

"For finding the stuff your guy found on Flass. You sent Gabe, didn't you?"

"Well, I had no other person to send seeing as _you_ had other plans, remember?" Oswald reminded calmly. Then with a spark of anticipation, he asked, "But it did help?"

"Yes," I confirmed, ignoring the first comment. "Flass was arrested. It was pretty dramatic how it went down, but none the less, he is behind bars. I wouldn't hold your breath though. He is highly connected. He'll get a slap on the wrist, some months in prison—and it won't be Blackgate."

I took a sip of my coffee.

_Fucking Christ—IT'S HOT LAVA!_

I pursed my lips, swirling the hot coffee in my mouth—luckily, it cooled down a few degrees before it burned my throat on the way down. Oswald snickered when I coughed, my eyes watering.

When I continued to cough, he grew worried.

"Are you okay?" Oswald asked.

I took a napkin from the center of the table and wiped my mouth.

"Fine," I said weakly.

My face faded back to its original color instead of purple-red. When he was certain that I was all right, he glanced at my overall appearance.

"Are you going to the restaurant?" Oswald asked.

"Yes. I have to rearrange the schedules. Billy wants Thanksgiving off."

"And that requires a one-on-one meeting?"

"If you don't think so, you don't know your staff members very well, Mr. Cobblepot," I teased, smiling so. I stood to my feet, smoothed down my skirt, and poured the rest of the hot lava in the sink.

I motioned to his empty plate: "Finished?"

"Quite."

I took it and placed it in the sink and started scrubbing dishes. I felt his hands on my shoulders, and I startled, only realizing then that he stood behind me. He ignored my flinching movement and ran his hands down my back, circling them around my hips. One of his arms wrapped around me; I felt him pull my shirt a little way away so he could kiss my shoulder, his soft lips touching the exposed skin.

"Trying to start something?" I asked knowingly.

"What do you think?"

" _I think_ you are up to no good. Is this going to be part of the morning routine?"

Oswald stated in a tone of matter of fact, "I would have done this last night, but you never came to bed."

I continued washing dishes, pretending that I couldn't feel his hands lightly grazing up my sides and back down. Pretending that I didn't feel his fingers slipping under my shirt and doing the same, caressing my breasts over the material of my bra. I heard him sigh in my ear, his breath on my skin made the heat rise in my face.

_Wash these damn dishes, girl—_

He lifted one of my breasts out of the bra cup and kneaded its hardened nipple between his fingers.

"Someone's horny, isn't he?" I taunted while I tried to ignore the growing ache between my legs than I knew only he would be able to relieve.

"You wore a skirt and heels first thing in the morning," Oswald told me huskily, "how do you expect me to respond?"

"I didn't realize that was a quick turn-on for you. Maybe, I should wear them more often."

His hand continued to play with my nipple, rolling it between his fingers. I stifled the moan that dared to slip out. With his free hand, he pushed all of my hair to the opposite shoulder so he could press his lips against my neck. His hips pushed against mine, and I felt his erection nudge between the back of my thighs; then he did it again, and again, starting a slow grind between them; inadvertently, I started spreading my legs; my attention divided from the dishes and refocused on every kiss he planted on my neck, one hand caressing my breast, the other digging into my hip to keep me in place.

The neglected running water from the sink faucet only seemed to reaffirm what he already knew: Oswald had me in the palm of his hand.

But he was in the palm of mine too. I shoved my ass against him, and he groaned, confirming my mischievous suspicions.

His hand that had been teasing my breast dropped to the hem of my skirt, hiking it up above my waist. He leaned forward, pinning my body between his and the counter.

He grabbed my hair and yanked it to the right, so my head craned to the left; he looked at me with dilated eyes.

"You enjoy being teased, don't you, Pet?" Oswald's lustful tones spoke volumes in my ear, and his shallow breaths made a pleasurable chill run down my back and tease my loins.

When I didn't respond, he pulled my hair even harder.

"Yes, yes, I do!" I gasped, wincing in pain.

His lips turned upward into a smug grin. He let go of my hair and placed his hand around my neck, his thumb stroking my throat; the other slipped between my legs, the pads of his fingers rubbing circles over the front of my panties.

"Oswald, I—"

"Hush."

I bit my bottom lip gingerly when he nudged his fingers into the fabric, teasing my wet pussy with the possibility of entry. He still kept me pinned between himself and the sink.

"Oz…."

"I said 'hush'," His voice more commanding than before.

"But…."

"I won't say it again," He warned. "Now, turn around."

He lowered his hands so that I could do what I was told. I was ready to smart off, to retort with some type of asinine response but the comment was lost on me when I met his eyes. They were brilliantly bright, and yet, his pupils were full blown. Dilated with lust.

"I love you, Sylvia." He said gently.

"I love you too."

"Good to know. Turn towards me."

While he pulled his pants down just enough for his cock to spring out, his hand moved up my skirt to my panties and pulled them halfway down my legs. I quickly stepped out of them, turned his direction, and then braced myself on the sink when he moved forward. One of my legs lifted, and I placed the crook of my ankle on top of a nearby kitchen chair.

His cock touched the entrance of my pussy, the head nudging teasingly.

" _Now_ who's the horny one," Oswald taunted as he slowly slid his cock into my wet walls.

"You were the one with the hard-on digging against my back earlier," I muttered, smirking.

I kept one hand on the sink, bracing myself up while my other grabbed his shoulder, my nails digging into his suit. His cock pulled out with the head still inside of me before slamming back in; I moaned without restraint, feeling the electric shocks numb my fingers and curl my toes. He had just the right angle to penetrate my G-spot, and oh—my—fucking—god did it feel amazing!

"So wet…." Oswald groaned, his pace quickening.

His hands gripped underneath my thighs, fingertips digging. His eyes closed, his lips parted open in between sexual frustration and an edging climax.

Almost there…

It wouldn't take long.

I could feel it coming.

My thighs trembled; my moans were becoming nothing more than pleasurable cries.

_Almost…._

"Fucking **Christ** …." I whimpered, leaning forward as I bit Oswald's shoulder once my orgasm struck home, numbing my brain.

My vaginal walls seized him and the pressure surrounding his cock made Oswald climax. He held me close to him, filling me with his come which only threw me into another moaning mess. We remained there for a few more minutes, panting. He slowly slid out of me and I placed both my feet on the ground, smiling at him.

"Do you feel better?" I asked smugly.

He didn't dignify the question with a response, but a sly smile on his face spoke volumes as he fixed himself. I pulled my panties back up and smoothed out my skirt.

"You _do_ look beautiful," Oswald said, noting my appearance. "Especially in a skirt."

"Thank you."

"You look beautiful in everything," Oswald pointed out, smiling at me shyly.

How was it that he could be dominating and confident one moment and then in the next appear like a schoolboy with a crush? It didn't bug me any; in fact, I thought it was adorable as fuck. He touched my shoulder and kissed my cheek.

"You look good too." I said, smirking. "But you might want to be careful with those suits of yours."

"Why?"

"A woman's lingerie to a man is a man's suit to a woman," I said smoothly. I fixed his collar, adding, "I can't tell you how many times I've thought about sneaking into the back of the restaurant so I can fuck you into the wall."

Oswald's eyebrows raised in response to the vivid image he probably got in his mind and I winked at him.

"It's only through sheer will power and self-discipline that I don't."

He took my hands in his.

"You don't have much self-discipline to begin with," He pointed out.

"You're right," I sighed. "But for you, I try to exercise _some_ type of humanity."

Oswald snickered, "Well, you have my utmost appreciation."

I kissed his cheek, and he grinned broadly.

"I _do_ have to go, though," I said, glancing at my watch. "If all goes to plan, Thanksgiving schedules will be a breeze and I won't have to yell at anyone. But the day is young."

"I'll go with you. I'm meeting Don Maroni."

"In _your_ own restaurant—how original. He loves eating there, doesn't he?"

Oswald left the kitchen briefly to get his dress jacket from the wardrobe and he slipped it on gracefully, buttoning it up and looking like the perfect gentleman.

"He prefers my company compared to others, I suppose," He said as he opened the door and allowed me to step out first.

"Well, of course he does—you're his money maker."

We headed to the elevator and he pushed the button for the foyer. The doors closed with a strange shuttering sound and we exchanged glances.

"What is this meeting about, should I ask?" I inquired, stepping off the elevator.

"A check-in," Oswald answered. When I looked at him, confused, he elaborated: "After what happened with Mooney…."

"He'll be happy to know she's gone," I noted as we headed out to the car.

"Elated," Oswald agreed.

Gabe was there, opening the car door for me. Oswald took my hand and I looked at him, perplexed by the sudden movement.

"I think after I finish my business with Maroni," Oswald said thoughtfully, "we should go out for dinner. Just you and me."

"Like a date night?"

Oswald nodded, waiting for my answer.

"Sure." I said, smiling. "Date night sounds fun."

Oswald grinned ear-to-ear: "I'll make the reservations."

I stepped inside the car and Gabe shut my door. Oswald sat in the passenger seat and Gabe, in the driver's chair. I leaned forward between the two.

"Hi, Gabe!" I greeted spontaneously.

"Hello, Miss G."

"How's life treating you?"

"Peachy," Gabe answered in his usual deep voice.

He turned his head to see me and I grinned at him.

"You look nice," He commented.

"Aw, shucks," I said, smirking. "Thank you. You don't look too bad yourself."

"Start the car, Gabe," Oswald ordered.

Gabe did as he was told, and he started driving.

I suppressed a grin. I could reassure Oswald all I could about how he was the only man for me, but on the whole, Oswald was just a jealous man. Even though I had no physical, emotional, or any attraction whatsoever to Gabe, Oswald still had that possessive edge to his voice. Between Gabe and Oswald, the boss sent him a warning look and Gabe appeared apologetic, but not regretful.

Gabe knew Oswald was possessive of me. And while the former would never do anything to upset the balance between our relationship, Gabe still didn't mind telling me how I looked. And I didn't mind hearing it. It was just two people acknowledging each other, really. And underneath his jealousy, Oswald seemed to understand so he didn't really have to say anything to either of us.

The drive there was short, and Gabe crawled out of the car, opening my door.

"Thank ya, friend. But you don't have to keep opening my door. I can open it myself, you know," I said lightly.

"The boss insists," Gabe said, glancing at Oswald indicatively. "Besides. I don't mind."

"That's sweet."

I walked into the restaurant.

Maroni and a few of his pals were in the dining area, already seated. It was possible that sex in the kitchen had put the meeting on a bit of a delay, but I wasn't complaining. I didn't get very far past Maroni before I heard him say, "Hey! There's my favorite gal! Get over here!"

_Crap._

I walked backwards and smiled politely at Maroni.

"You look a lot better since I last saw you in the hospital," Maroni noted. "Let me get a look at you."

I figured he meant my neck since that's where Mike Travinsky had shot me, and I tilted my head so he could see it perfectly in the sunlight.

"Healed up nicely, I see," Maroni said, smiling widely. "You're a tough girl, aren't you?"

"Or Mike is just a bad shot—either one."

Maroni found it funny: "You're nothing if not modest, aren't you, Sylvia?"

"Don't I know it.'

"Would you like a drink?" He asked, gesturing to one of his men who looked ready to serve.

"Not right now," I declined politely. "I have a few things to do around the restaurant."

"Sounds like busy work."

"It is. Really boring, but nevertheless—a necessity to keep the place running well. I hope you don't mind."

"Nah. Where's your lesser half?"

I pointed at Oswald who was coming around the table just as Maroni mentioned him.

"There's my main man, right there—have a seat, Penguin!" He greeted happily.

_Fish Mooney's compromise certainly put_ him _in a good mood, didn't it?_

As Oswald took a seat, I stepped into the kitchen.

Chef Billy was working his ass off, flipping burgers, boiling lobsters, working up a sweat. He wore white, much like the rest of the staff, but despite the appearance, the uniforms weren't sweat proof; as evidence, the obese chef had pit stains showing and his neck and back fat weren't far behind. Beside him, six individuals—three men, three women—were washing dishes and scrubbing food off plates. Four waiters would bustle in and out, carrying two plates at a time and then exchanging the dirty ones for cleaner ones.

Water spilled on the floor and was guzzled into the drain; scraps of half-eaten fish sticks and shredded duck piled beside a full trash can. Over the _shhhhhhh_ of running water and loud hissing from the greasy food, I wondered how this place kept running like a well-oiled machine.

"Hey! Look who popped in for a visit!" Chef Billy said loudly, grinning over his shoulder.

His announcement brought home the attention, and everyone literally glanced over to see that I was standing in the kitchen.

"You look better," Greg, one of the most recent hires, said as he rounded the corner and placed another empty dish into the sink.

"Thanks."

Several others mentioned how I looked better since getting out of the hospital. Most of them had been around when Mike shot me. Mitchell, the janitor, walked along the greasy floor and placed his arm candidly around my shoulder.

"How've you been?" He asked, grinning widely. "I've meant to ask you something since you got out."

"Sure, what's that?"

"When are we getting that buffer repaired?" He asked curiously.

"C'mon, Mitch, come off that," Billy the Chef scolded. "That work order isn't going to get through any time soon."

"It's been over a month since she put it in, Bill," Mitchell chided. "I think the repairman—what's his face—has had plenty of time to get it through. Seriously, the floors out there are getting dull, and _I'm_ not gonna be the one who gets blamed for it."

"Robert Farnsworth," corrected Greg. "The repairman's name is Robert Farnsworth."

"Fuck that guy, man," grumbled Mitchell resentfully. "The guy is a lazy prick."

Billy placed the boiling lobsters on a dish and started buttering them, looking over his shoulder.

"He _is_ a prick," Billy agreed, looking at me.

I asked, "What makes him a prick?"

"You've talked to him. Don't you think he's a prick?"

"I spoke with Moe—the plumber—It's been a while since I last spoke to him, being in a coma and what not. The Robert guy was supposed to come by and fix the buffer. Did he say anything to you?"

"He has said plenty," Billy reassured, laughing. "That's for sure."

"He's done shit," Greg scoffed before leaving the kitchen to tend to his patrons.

I looked after him then turned to Bill.

"What does _that_ mean?" I asked.

"It means 'he's done shit'," Mitchell reaffirmed coldly.

"What specifically, though?"

Billy rolled his eyes saying, "When Mitchell brought up the fact that the work order for the buffer has been in for a while, Moe said he ain't in charge of it—that's someone else's job."

"Well, that sounds correct. If I recall, he and I said he would work on the buffer. The only thing he couldn't work on was the sink. Robert should have done that. Speaking of which, did he get them fixed?"

"No—that Robert guy never came—that's why they're saying he has 'done shit'." Billy summarized. "He was s'posed to work on the sinks, but he never showed. He's called twice, saying he'll be here, but he never shows."

"When was he supposed to come? Did he say?"

"Nah—he just never showed. And that's been a couple weeks too."

"So, let me get this straight," I said patiently as I crossed my arms. "You're telling me that while I have been out, _nothing_ has been fixed. Moe hasn't come to fix the buffer. This Robert guy that _Moe_ recommended hasn't come to fix the sinks. When were you all going to let me know?"

Mitchell said pointedly, "We're letting you know now."

I shot him a glare.

Billy smiled apologetically saying, "No offense to you, Sylvia, but the people here don't bring their complaints to you the moment they happen."

"Why is that? Am I not approachable?"

"I think it's a woman thing, to be fair," said Billy. "I told 'em to tell me what's going on—with the sinks and buffer—and then I will let you know. But you haven't been here in a couple of weeks because of your coma, and so far since getting out of it, you didn't ask about it, so I figured it wasn't important to you. So, we've just let things be, and they keep getting worse."

"You're a smart guy, Bill, so I don't want you to be offended at all when I say what I am about to say politely."

He nodded expectantly.

"That is _fucking_ idiotic," I sneered.

Billy frowned: "I thought you were going to say it politely."

"I _am_ being fucking polite."

"Doesn't sound like it."

"That's because I am irritated as shit."

"One could see that."

I sighed in exasperation, throwing my hands up in the air. I took the clipboard from the back of the kitchen door which read all the cleaning duties for the janitors and then smashed over on the sink. Everyone in the kitchen looked at me as I received their undivided attention.

"Everyone, stop what you're doing!" I shouted.

The dishwashers stopped washing dishes, and Billy took the grilling food and placed it to the side, turning to me expectantly. I stepped out and looked at the remaining waitresses that were helping their patrons along.

"All staff members!" I called to the room.

The staff and the customers glanced at me, including Maroni and Oswald, who were talking over a glass of champagne.

"Come to the kitchen." I commanded.

When the waitresses glanced at each other uncertainly, I shouted, "NOW!" They excused themselves and briskly walked to me while Maroni laughed at that. I gathered everyone in the kitchen and looked at them all coldly.

"I should _not_ have to treat you all like children," I berated. "You all know how this shit works. If something breaks, if something doesn't work, you tell me when it happens. You don't _wait_ for it to get worse and **then** tell me! That is childish!" (I glanced at Billy in particular, who shrugged apathetically). "I do not come to the restaurant every day because I feel like you all can govern yourselves accordingly. If that sounds like something none of you can do anymore, please—I invite you to leave. Right now."

I shot my finger to the door, indicating the exit.

No one left.

"Now," I said with forced calm. "I am about to arrange this holiday's schedule. Other than Billy, who doesn't think they can work Thanksgiving?"

A few people raised their hands.

"Tell me why."

None of them spoke.

I sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

"If you have sick family—like Billy's mother—you can take the holiday off, _but_ you will be working Christmas Day…."

A lot of groans from everyone. I took a long breath in before slowly exhaling.

_Patience…. patience…._

"It is only fair," I commented patiently. "If you work Thanksgiving, you'll get Christmas Day off. Vice versa. This has been and will always be the restaurant's policy—it didn't change with Lou was in charge, and it will not change while Mr. Cobblepot is in charge. Now, I need a tally of all those working Thanksgiving—so please, raise your hands."

No one raised their hands.

"If you do not decide," I warned, "I will."

A few people raised their hands to work the upcoming holiday.

"Good," I said, forcing a smile. "See what happens when we work together? Things go a lot more smoothly. All right, now those who are working Thanksgiving, you will be working your normal hours…."

"We don't do half-days?" Greg asked curiously.

"You're new here, so I don't expect you to know. But no, we don't."

"That's horse shit," He muttered under his breath.

I ignored his comment and said aloud, "We don't do half-days, people. You get the holiday off—that's more than what most restaurants in Gotham offer. Don't forget you also have your paid-time off to use whenever you like as long as you make sure your shifts are covered during time of absence."

Resentful agreement all around.

"Now," I continued. "I will take care of the work orders still in the system—the sinks, the buffer…."

A ceiling tile suddenly broke from above and clashed down on my right, covering me in insulation. Everyone startled and jumped back, looking at me with dropped jaws and wincing expressions. I brushed the dust from my face, squinting up at the hole above me.

"…. And that," I added.

"Are you okay?" Billy asked.

"Fucking place is falling apart," Mitchell chuckled darkly, glancing up at the hole. "I bet a mouse been eating away up there."

"I'll call an exterminator as well," I said with resolve. "Now…. everyone, please, get back to work. I'll take care of it."

I stood beside Billy, who glanced at me with concern.

"While I find a reliable exterminator," I said calmly, "I need you to be my eyes and ears. If something happens, you tell me—good or bad."

"Sure thing."

"Good man," I thanked him, patting his shoulder.

I held the door open and the waiters and waitresses quickly left to tend to their awaiting patrons. Looking out at the diner, I noticed that Oswald and Maroni were nowhere to be found.

An unpleasant twist in my stomach lurched. I glanced at my phone to see if there were any missed calls or messages, but so far, none.

_Stay calm, girl. He and Maroni just probably went to take a walk._

I bit my lip uncertainly.

Oswald knew how protective I was of him; knew how quickly I would think the worst. Would he not have sent me a text or pulled me aside to let me know he was leaving? Then again, Oswald was with Maroni, the big bad guy himself. It wasn't like he was left alone with someone like Fish Mooney, right?

With Fish gone, Falcone would have to fight to keep her territory. Perhaps they….

_Went to talk about opportunities? Opportunities were Maroni's thing, and Oswald was an opportunist, well-defined._

I forced myself to calm down. I had to make the schedules, still. Leaving wasn't going to happen for the next hour or so. I figured if I didn't hear from him by then, I would investigate.

_Maybe put out a BOLO or whatever the cops did when someone went missing._

I laughed nervously at that.

Talk about an overreaction.

Or….

I glanced at my phone again.

_Don't worry, girl. Oswald is a survivor. He can take care of himself. He's the Penguin after all, remember?_

Sure…. He can take care of himself.

But Maroni is a big guy. And he's alarmingly suave.

Oh god, my hands are shaking. So nervous….

_Just make the schedules quickly. After that, you can call him. Just. Keep. Fucking. Calm. Don't overreact, don't overthink. Just do what you have to do—Oswald would say that, wouldn't he? Just do your job and leave the worrying to him. He can handle it._

"Sylvia, are you okay?"

I smiled at Billy who was watching me earnestly.

"Just thinking…." I managed distractedly.

"Is that all?" He said, glancing at my trembling hands, one of which was holding my phone so tightly that my nail beds were turning white.

I smiled weakly.

"That's all." I reassured more firmly.

_Just about to have a fucking heart attack, that's all._

"Excuse me," I said politely.

I walked into Oswald's office, closing the door behind me. I slunk against the frame. One more glance at the phone and I'll start working on those schedules.

_You said one more glance, girl. You're staring at the thing._

"Come on, Oz." I whispered. "Give me a sign you're okay."

The phone's screensaver just stared back at me.

_Do I call him?_

No…. what if he's having a discussion with Maroni? You can blow his chances if he has to interrupt the conversation just to say he's fine. You don't want to be _that_ girlfriend, do you?

_Should I text him_?

What if his phone is on silent?

_I don't fucking know._

I bit my lip and felt my heart beating faster. Why did I feel like the walls were closing in.

_Seriously, you need to chill._

I laughed out loud—not that it made me feel any better. The laugh itself came out shaky and petrified.

I hit number one on the speed dial.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

"Come on, PICK UP!" I shouted.

Ring, ring, ring, ring…. ring, ring….

_Don't be that type of girlfriend, Sylvia. Stop calling him. He'll call you._

"Pick up…." I said loudly. "Pick up, pick up, pick up…. goddamn it why does you have fucking cell phone if you're not going to pick up!"

I stood to my feet.

Fuck the schedules. I would do them later. I'd have to find Oswald.

_He never told you where he was going._

"Fuck me!" I groaned.

_Maroni knows._

"He doesn't know shit—oh my god, I am talking to myself," I muttered, rubbing my forehead. "Okay…. okay…. Now I know I am overreacting. I'll…. I'll leave a voicemail or something for him to call me back."

_He has his phone on silent. That's why he's not answering._

"Of course!" I exclaimed, slapping my forehead. "Of course, it makes sense. Okay…. I'll just send him a text."

I opened up the messages and started one.

' _When you get this, please call me.'_

I wondered whether or not I should add a smiley face, but then again, this wasn't a cutesy message, this was a 'I am having a panic attack, tell me you're not fucking dead' kind of message. No cute fuckery around here, right now!

So, I sent it as is.

_Okay, you sent the message. Now calm the hell down._

I sat in Oswald's chair and pulled the notebook of schedules towards me. If I started some busy work, I could bring myself to do just that: calm down, that is. Even as I stared at the shift markers and the names of all the employees, my mind was buzzing.

The disgusting turning and twisting in my stomach was not helping in the slightest.

_Don't you dare look at your phone—ah you bitch…._

I looked at my phone, picking it up.

Then I thought, _Oh shit…. what if he doesn't have signal_?

"Goddamn it…." I muttered. " _Goddamn it."_

I hadn't thought about that!

More panic. More uncomfortable stomach cartwheels. More trembling.

Jim.

_Don't call your brother, he won't help._

"He'll have to." I muttered. "He should know—"

There was a knock on the door.

"Come!" I called out.

The door opened and standing in the doorway was Billy.

"What?" I demanded.

Billy apologetically smiled, holding up the work phone saying, "It's Robert."

"The repairman?" I questioned.

He nodded.

"What does he want?"

"You might want to hear it yourself," Billy stated carefully. "But you're not gonna like it."

"Take a message then."

"He doesn't want to leave a message; he wants to talk to you," Billy explained patiently.

"Then let him know that I will call him back," I remarked strictly. "I'm in the middle of something."

Billy sighed and he answered the phone, looking at me. After a few seconds, he sighed again, saying, "She's not available—she said she will call you back though….no….no, sir, I…. well, that's what she said, I can't help it if you don't want to hear it."

"Give me the goddamn phone," I snarled.

Billy raised his eyebrows and he quickly handed it to me.

" ** _What._** "

"Is this Sylvia Gordon?"

"Speaking," I said coldly.

"My name is Robert Farnsworth…."

"I'm well aware of who you are, sir," I interrupted curtly. I stood to my feet. "You came highly recommended by a colleague of yours, one named Moe Smith. He talked _very_ highly of you, said you would come and fix the sinks that are still in disrepair. But my staff just informed me that you never appeared. You wasted my staff's time, your time, and what's considerably _more_ important— **my** time. You got it?"

"I understand your concern—"

"Clearly you don't," I retorted.

"Well, ma'am, I was going to let you know that I plan on arriving at your restaurant in a few hours if you would be available to sign the necessary documentation provided," said Robert calmly.

"I won't be available," I said, glancing up at Billy. "But I will place a member of my staff in my place."

"Ma'am, that won't work."

"Well, it will have to," I responded coldly. "I have a very full schedule. My chef will be able to sign the documents needed. I trust him."

Billy grinned at my comment.

"If that is not going to work," I said sternly, "then I will use another company. You plumbers are a dime a dozen here in Gotham."

There was silence on the other line.

"Fine," Robert whined. It sounded like he was holding back a temper tantrum. "That will be fine. I will be there in a few hours. Acceptable?"

"Yes. Thank you." I said and then I hung up.

I looked at Billy and handed him the phone. He took it gingerly from my hands, watching me.

"Are you _sure_ you're okay?" asked Billy.

"I'm fine," I lied. "Why do you ask?"

""You were a lot more abrasive on the phone…. more than normal, I mean."

I sat at Oswald's desk, in his chair, and looked at Billy: "I can't stand it when things don't go according to plan—gets me bent out of shape."

Billy stepped towards the desk. "I can see that. You tend to get angry a lot—not just when things don't go according to plan."

I looked up at him.

"You get angry when you're scared," said Billy gently.

"That's nonsense."

"Is it?" Billy chuckled. "You were angry when Mike was trying to get his job back. You were angry when he nearly killed you—you were feisty all the way up to the end."

"Not the end, Bill. I lived. What's your point?"

"You're not just angry to be angry. You're angry because you're anxious. But you're like the most confident, fearless woman I know," said Billy, placing his hands on his wide hips. "So that makes me wonder: what are you afraid of?"

I said half-jokingly, "I don't like snakes very much."

"That's not what I'm talking about. Why are you nervous right now?"

I gave him a long, hard look, wondering if I could trust my chef with any of my secrets. Ultimately, no, I couldn't. But it would be nice to expel some of my anxiety, to have an outlet other than yelling at my staff.

"I've not heard from Oswald."

"And you're worried about him?"

"'Worried' is a little over-the-top, don't you think?"

Billy chuckled, "For most people, sure. But you're overprotective….and a few other things."

"I'm the jealous type—I admit it. But that's not why I am worried."

"You don't think he's two-timing you?"

"He never would. He always suspects that _I_ might."

"That doesn't offend you?"

"He and I are both jealous. It's not one our best traits, but we get by," I explained coolly. "Regardless, I don't think he's cheating on me. I think he might be in trouble."

"One of the waiters say he left with Maroni—does that sound troubling?" Chef Billy asked curiously.

"It does but not for reasons you may think."

"Tried calling him?"

I nodded.

"Have you tried texting him?" Billy asked.

Once again, I nodded.

"Does he normally tell you where he's going?"

"Not all the time. That's why I think I _may_ be overreacting just a bit…."

"That's what you're telling yourself," said Billy, crossing his arms. "But what's your gut telling you? I know what mine tells me. It says 'eat lunch', and I do it. When it tells me to not pass on the dessert, I'm digging into that ice cream bowl."

I gave him a look, saying, "Your gut is a bad influence."

"It can be," Billy agreed, shrugging. "But it's normally right."

_Huh. Who knew Chefs were wise?_

"Listen to your gut," said Billy carefully. "It knows what's wrong before the rest of you does."

I smiled, getting to my feet.

"Thank you, Bill." I said, holding out my hand.

"No problem," He replied, shaking it. "Does this mean I get a raise?"

"Maybe. I'll talk to Oswald and see if something can be arranged."

Billy grinned widely and he left the office, closing the door on the way out.

I opened my messages and my heart skipped a beat when I read the message:

' _Maroni knows._ '

I stared at the message for a while longer before it registered in my brain: Maroni knows that Fish isn't dead, maybe? He knows that Oswald is secretly working for Falcone? That message could mean a whole shitload of things! One thing was for certain: my life was in danger.

"Fuck…." I muttered. "Fuck!"

Schedules would have to wait! I glanced out of the office window and saw some of Maroni's men outside waiting for me.

"Oh shit!" I gasped.

_They're coming for you._

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit on a fucking cracker, shit…. okay…okay…." I mumbled to myself. I thought better aloud anyway—who needed a thought bubble. "Shit..."

There were two windows on the back wall, opposite of the door. I slid the office chair underneath the one that looked like it would open.

There was no latch or pulley—nothing. It was just decoration.

But I could fit through it if I broke it. My eyes darted around the room. Anything could be used as a weapon in this place, even that stapler, or the guest's chair.

_Bingo._

Lifting the chair was a lot harder than I thought since it was heavier than it looked. I lifted it over my shoulder and threw it into the glass, and then I fell backwards momentarily after.

_Not the best idea, idiot._

The door opened.

_Yeah, you should have locked that sucker up._

They were familiar, the two large thugs belonging to Maroni that came inside the office. The first was dressed in his usual yellow garb; his name was Mack. The other was just as stocky, dressed in black. His name was Crone. They both smiled at me.

"Boss told us to take you out," Mack said lazily. "I told him it would be a pleasure. How do you wanna do it?"

"Fuck you." I hissed.

Mack sighed, glancing at his compadre, "I guess we're doing it the hard way, huh?"

"Yeah," chuckled Crone. "I guess we are." He grinned slyly, and he took out a knife. "How do you like it, Poppet?"

I couldn't think of a good enough comeback for him. Instead, I was trying to think of the quickest way out of this office. The window hadn't even splintered—maybe I should have the same guy who put up the glass window fix the sink?

"You got to love a strong-willed woman," Mack jeered at Crone. "They're so fiery, you know. I bet she's just a wild animal in the sack. Isn't that right?"

"If you come any closer, I will eat your fucking nose."

"I'd hope you'd lick something first," guffawed Mack. To lay down the point, he grabbed himself through his pants. "Let's see what keeps that penguin's attention at night, huh?"

Crone seemed reluctant with the suggestion. He held the knife in his hand, but I doubted he had intended on using it for more than just slicing and dicing. Mack, on the other hand, looked like he might come in his pants with just the thought of his dick in my mouth. There was a lot of hunger in that face, and I _know_ it wasn't real hunger because he'd eaten three plates of Chef Billy's lasagna.

They steadily crept forward. Three times my weight—there was no way I could fight one, nevertheless, the _both_ of them.

My phone started ringing; I answered it quickly, "Yes…."

_"Sylvia!"_

It was Oswald.

I didn't let out a breath of relief, even though I wanted to. If these fuckers knew that Oswald was alive, they'd call Maroni and try to find him again. I felt my voice shake though.

" _Sylvia_!"

I smiled at the two men, saying, "It's the pizza guy."

"Is it?" Mack said skeptically. "You're ordering pizza?"

"I _was_ until you two came. I can finish ordering if you want—it's already bought and paid for….er...compliments of the house."

I spoke into the phone as I talked to the two goons. I didn't know what I was expecting but….it was well worth a short.

"Sure, order the pizza," said Mack, gesturing to me. "Then…. then you can suck my pepperoni, if you get what I am saying."

Oswald's voice sounded uncertain on the other side as he said my name again.

"Oh," I continued. "Who is the pizza for? Well, just put on the list that it's for Mack and Crone—they'll be here for pickup."

""Put extra cheese on mine."

"Yes, two pizzas," I said shakily. "Extra cheese on Mack's pizza, please."

Oswald was quiet on the other line. Until he spoke next, "Say 'Mushrooms' if you are in trouble, Sylvia."

"Mushrooms," I answered calmly.

Crone added, "Extra pepperonis. I don't really want Mushrooms on mine."

I nodded quickly and covered the speaker just barely so Oswald could still hear while I told Crone, "Don't worry—I'll let him know…. he's uh…. writing all the information down to give to his _boss_."

On Oswald's side, I could hear another voice. It was Falcone, talking to him. They spoke quickly and under their breaths. Falcone's voice on the other line startled me.

"Sylvia, if there is more than one person with you, say you would like 'Thin Crust'."

"I'd like _both_ of the pizzas to be 'thin crust'…." I began.

"No! NO THIN CRUST!" Mack shouted.

"N-nevermind…." I said quickly. "No thin crust…. per the fine gentleman in front of me."

Mack pulled out a gun and I felt my legs starting to give out from all this anxiety.

"Finish ordering that pizza, little girl," Mack drawled. "And we'll have something _real_ nice for you."

Falcone's voice said calmly, "You're trying to be calm, Sylvia. Don't. Let them feel like they have _you_ under control. Where are you?"

I heard Oswald say, "She's at the restaurant."

Falcone's voice returned: "My men are coming, Sylvia."

"Sure thing," I said, nodding quickly. I looked at the men. "They want to know if you'd like anything to go with it?"

"Some Pepsi—but none of that diet shit," Crone insisted, nudging Mack. "And it better come cold!"

"Pepsi," I said quickly. "Um. What's the estimated time of arrival, may I ask?"

Oswald's voice spoke on the other end: "Twenty minutes. Tell them it'll be fifteen."

"Fifteen minutes." I repeated.

Mack snarled, "Fuck that—make it thirty—I'd like this moment to last forever."

I couldn't say anything to that: not to them or to Oswald.

"We'll be there as quick as possible, Sylvia. I love you." Oswald said—and his voice shook too.

I couldn't say anything to that without feeling I would give myself away. I hung up the phone. Mack held his hand out for it, and I gave it to them. Mack smirked back at Crone.

"Keep that door shut." Mack said dangerously. "I want to enjoy this…"

"What if I wanted her first?" Crone questioned, offended. "I hate sloppy seconds."

"Well, you're going to have to live with it, then. I'll just leave nothing for you, how's that? You like that?"

I rolled my eyes. Even when my life and otherwise perfect vagina was being threatened, I couldn't help but feel irritated by the childish argument. But it seemed that between the two of them, Mack was the Alpha male since Crone seemed placated by the insult; he stood in front of the door, facing us.

"He's just going to watch?" I exclaimed, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Don't tell me you're _shy—_ I bet you like doing shit in front of people. Nice handful of tits like yours—you gotta be a real exhibitionist."

"I'm surprised you even know that word."

"'Exhibitionist'?" Mack asked, stepping forward with a smug grin.

"No. The word 'of'."

"Smart ass little bitch. I'm going to enjoy this."

He stepped closer to me. I moved to the side, keeping my back away from any walls. There was no flipping way I would be the stupid girl slowly being backed into a corner.

_No one puts Baby in a corner._

Ha. Movie references.

Mack seemed to realize I wasn't as stupid as he thought; he noticed that I always kept some space between us. He suddenly lunged forward. I jumped back. He took a swipe again, and I ran past him.

This office wasn't big to begin with, but of medium space. He placed the gun on the table.

"I was just going to fuck you, nice and slow, and then shoot ya, but I guess I've changed my mind," Mack growled. "I'm going to fuck you until you bleed, and _then_ I will shoot you. Sounds good, doesn't it?"

"Could you shoot me first?" I questioned pointedly. "I'd rather be dead than have that little sausage go anywhere near me!"

"That's right. Make me mad. It'll only hurt worse!"

He lunged forward one more time and grabbed my hair. I started kicking and screaming as loud as possible. He shoved his hand over my mouth, then slammed my body into the ground. I grunted at the impact and he straddled me.

"Gotta thank god for you girls wearing shit like this…." Mack moaned as he yanked my skirt above my waist. I still wriggled and writhed, trying to get away from him. He sat on my knees and one hand held both of my wrists in his palm.

My _god_ , this guy was fat.

"Look at that cute little pussy just trying to get out," said Mack, grinning toothily. "I bet you're shaven too…. Let's took a look!"

"NO!" I screamed, but it came out as "MM!" thanks to the hand that muzzled me.

He took one side of my panties and stripped them down my legs.

"Oh my god…. Look at this, Crone!" Mack shouted, grinning downwards. "Not one hair!"

Crone, who just _had_ to see what Mack was bragging about, came running forward and he started palming his own crotch when he saw my bare pussy.

"Okay—you've looked," said Mack gruffly, "Get back to guarding the damn door!"

Crone mumbled hateful words under his breath before doing what he was told.

Mack reached between my legs and shoved his fingers inside me.

It was this point that I started crying and I started struggling even harder.

"Oh, so fucking _tight..._. goddamn, this bitch is—"

There was a large BAM at the door, like someone was trying to break in. Crone grunted at the impact, and whipped around in surprise. Mack ignored it shouting, "DON'T LET THEM IN!"

He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants and out sprung a big cock. It touched my inner thighs and I screamed as loud as possible. Then I bit the fucker's hand.

"FUCKING WHORE!" He shouted, and he slapped me in the face.

"GET OFF ME!" I screamed.

"That comes after I've been inside you," Mack groaned.

When the BAM happened again, it burst through the door. The BAM sound was another one of Maroni's big fellas being thrown into the door. When the door was bust through, Crone was swung to the left, his head hitting the wall hard; he drooped against the wall, knocked out. Stepping on the fat door-breaker of a human being was Victor Zsasz, JJ and Al. Behind _them_ was Carmine Falcone, who seemed at ease until he saw my predicament.

Mack wasn't paying any attention.

Victor started forward, murder in his eyes. He placed two guns against Mack's head, and cocked each of them.

After hearing the sound, Mack looked at me like he'd never been more terrified.

"Take your hands _off_ my student," Victor ordered dangerously. "Stand up, and back away. If you don't do what I say, I will happily blow your head off."

Mack looked down at me. Despite the tears running down my face, I smirked at him.

"You better do what he says," I said lowly.

Mack slowly stood up and I crawled away, my face burning in humiliation. Falcone approached Mack, his eyes were cold like ice, and empty. He placed his hands behind him, as though he was thinking of the many ways that he could discipline this character.

"Sylvia." Falcone said softly.

I looked up at him.

"Would you kindly leave the room? Your fiancé is outside waiting for you." Falcone explained gently. "But before Victor and I deal with Crone..." (Victor's eyes never left Mack's head) "I think it's only fair that you get to decide what should be done with Mack."

I looked at the man in question, who still had his cock out—although instead of it being hard and erect, it was soft and tiny.

"Sir…." I began.

"I'll tell you what I would do…." Falcone encouraged, smiling. "If I had been in your situation."

"You would kill him?" I asked knowingly.

"Of course."

Victor spoke calmly, "I know what _I_ would do" and he mimicked a gun shooting at Mack's privates, making Al and JJ smirk at each other.

The latter whimpered, shaking his head, pleading for mercy.

"I have something else in mind."

Falcone watched expectantly as I strode towards Mack, who looked at me defiantly. He was trying to maintain his dignity, proving that he was still the Alpha male. Falcone waved for Victor and his team to move away and leave me with Mack.

"You still want me to suck your dick?" I asked softly, caressing his face.

Victor's eyes widened in shock and he glanced at Falcone uncertainly, leaning in, he said, "Boss…. I think we should—"

"Let's see where this goes," Falcone insisted. "Get Cobblepot in here."

"I don't think that's a wise decision," Victor muttered. "She's going to—"

"Get him in here," Falcone ordered.

"Sure…." Victor said quietly. He made a hand gesture and I was a bit aware that Oswald was in the room with us.

"What is—" Oswald began, but Falcone hushed him.

Mack looked at me incredulously.

"Do you…" I said quietly, "still want me….to suck your dick?"

"Um…. I mean, sure…." Mack muttered, his eyes staring me down.

I palmed him in front of everyone.

"Sylvia!" Oswald protested.

"Shh," Victor ordered. "We're seeing where this goes."

I palmed the guy until he was erect and relaxed. Then I slowly knelt to my knees.

"Boss, are we really going to let this happen?" Victor said incredulously.

Once my mouth was on Mack's dick, Mack moaned.

Then I bit down. _Hard_.

"AHHHHH!" Mack screamed.

I stood up, holding Mack's penis in my hand, spitting out the blood.

"Now you can suck your own dick, you sick fucker!" I shouted, and I shoved it down his throat.

He gagged on it, and fell over, holding his thick neck, eyes wide in terror and shock. I watched him slowly suffocate, and he reached out for anything or anyone to help him. When he held my ankle, I grabbed the gun that Mack had carelessly sat on the table, aimed and pulled the trigger, shooting off his balls. He tried to scream, but much like mine had been, his screams were muffled.

His eyes grew wider as he slowly began to die, and when he _was_ dead, I threw the gun into his lap.

I turned to see Victor staring at me, although he was grinning; Oswald looked absolutely terrified and Falcone appeared satisfied, albeit a bit disgusted. I strode past them without another word and was thankful that the rest of the restaurant had been cleared of all customers.

In the bathroom, I saw myself in the mirror. My entire front was covered with blood, my face was splattered and speckled with red, covering my tear-stained cheeks. I turned the faucet on full blast, ripped paper towels from the dispenser and rubbed them vigorously over my face before wetting them and doing the same between my legs.

Then I started crying for many reasons.

Crying because I had been violated. Crying because I had let it happen. Crying because I was so furious that I was crying in the first place. It was during that moment that I truly felt like I had been helpless. But the sound of screams that had come out of Mack, the way he pleaded and begged for death all the way to the end almost made up for it. The crunch sound his penis made when it was ripped off his body, and the blood that spurted out when I shot his balls.

I threw the bloody towels in the trash can.

I brushed my hair to the side and walked out of the bathroom. Pacing back and forth was Oswald, who, when he saw me, moved quickly and wrapped his arms around me. Despite the fact that my shirt was covered in blood, he didn't seem to care.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize."

"But truly, I am," Oswald insisted. "This makes it twice that this has happened because of me, my work."

I shoved him away and shouted, "I said _don't apologize_!"

He blinked, taken aback.

"I _chose_ to be a part of this," I said, pointing at Falcone. "You can't be sorry for something _I_ chose. Stop being sorry, Oswald. Stop saying you're sorry, even when you are! Your work—Don Falcone, Don Maroni, hell, even the craziness of the GCPD—I knew what I was getting into when we started dating!"

I looked at Falcone quickly saying, "No offense, sir."

"None taken," said Falcone, raising his hands. He looked at Victor. "Bring Crone." He glanced at the man who was slowly coming to. "We'll add him to your collection."

Victor grinned widely, saying, "You heard him, girls. Looks like ol' Butch is gonna have a friend!"

I turned to Oswald who looked at me. He struggled to speak.

"I don't know what to say," Oswald said finally.

"Then don't say anything," I remarked shakily. "Just…I need to go home. Can you take me home?"

"Of course," Oswald responded quickly.

He unbuttoned and shrugged off his jacket and placed it over me and he walked me to the car. While Gabe drove us, I sat in the back seat; and for once, Oswald was seated there with me. He held out his hand, palm up. I placed my hand in his; he squeezed.

He smiled gently at me, but I couldn't return it. I turned my head, looking out the window.

I was quiet the entire way home.

**Chapter 9: Date Night**

A/N: This chapter is a lot lighter compared to the last one. :)

I stood in the bathroom, staring at the mirror. In the casting reflection, I could see Oswald gingerly peeling off my blood-soaked clothes but I couldn't feel his touch. He spoke in a soothing voice, telling me to step out when my skirt puddled around my ankles and to raise my arms so he could pull the shirt up and over my head; I followed each request, numbly doing as he asked. As he ran the bath, he encouraged me to sit on the side of the bathtub. He soaked a washcloth and wiped the blood off my face, my neck and shoulders.

He said, 'you're okay, pigeon', and he meant every word. The sincerity of his words echoed in the back of my mind, telling me that I was safe. I let him talk. I let him speak, for now, while I burrowed deeper into my mind.

I wanted to repeat the event in my head, to see how I might have reacted differently. I could piece together the terrible parts where the man's fingers had shoved themselves into my pussy and I could remember his naked cock touching me—but everything else, the beginning and the end were a goddamn blur. It was like I had woken up from a vivid nightmare and most of it had been forgotten, all but the worst parts….it figures.

Oswald touched my face again with the damp cloth; I took it gingerly out of his hands.

He looked at me curiously. I didn't offer an explanation. Instead, I stood, stripped my body of all my clothes, then slowly eased myself into the bathtub. I watched Mack's dried blood on my legs and stomach slowly flake off and float to the surface. Oswald's eyebrows furrowed at my actions.

"Sylvia…."

"Please." I said hoarsely. "Don't talk anymore. Just…."

Just what though….?

I didn't know what I wanted. Did I want him to stay? Or did I want to be alone? I wanted to shower but at the same time, I wanted to stay in this bath full of the dead fucker's blood as a reminder that I had, in the end, bested him. I looked into Oswald's pleading eyes and I could see how desperate he wanted to make me feel better.

But _I_ didn't know what he could do to make it so.

After some time, I stood and stepped out of the bath. I looked behind me and saw bloody bits just latching together on the surface of the water, like algae on a dead-still pond. I wordlessly pulled the drain and then wrapped a towel around my body. Oswald sat on the edge of the tub, watching me, perplexed.

"Did you make the dinner reservations?" I asked softly, referring to the plans we had made earlier this morning.

"I can cancel them," Oswald offered, standing.

"Don't."

"Sylvia, you've—"

"I don't want to face what happened," I said immediately, stopping him. "I will but I don't want to face it right now. I want to keep the dinner reservations. We made plans this morning...I don't want to change them."

Oswald looked reluctant to agree.

"Fine," said Oswald gently, "If that's truly you want."

"It is," I murmured. "I'll get dressed."

I moved to the other room and observed myself in the wall length mirror in the bedroom, looking at my nude body.

Was I still pretty?

Was I fat?

Was I too skinny?

Did I look better in jeans or should I wear a skirt?

_Remember the last time you wore a skirt…._

I grimaced.

"It would have happened _regardless_ of what I'd have worn," I muttered, knowing the inevitability.

Mack was a pig. He had planned from the start that he would take away my dignity before taking my life. I looked at the mirror, observing my right side.

Compared to what happened, the scar on my neck was nothing but a scratch. I was shot in the neck and survived. But how did one survive something like a sexual assault? Does anyone get over anything like that, truly?

_No. You_ can't _get over something like that. No matter how many people say that you can._

How many times had Jim told me stories of women who were raped and failed to show up in court to testify against their attacker? They never went to trial because they feared someone would shame them into thinking that the attack—on the whole—was their fault.

_You can't blame yourself—you were unarmed._

True.

_You should blame yourself—you_ weren't _armed._

Maybe true?

I stepped closer to the mirror, having the internal debate run its course.

_I may deserve the ambush, but I didn't deserve the sexual assault. I may deserve a punch in the face for being a bitch, but just because I wear a skirt doesn't mean it was my fault._ Right?

Huh…. was that a breakthrough?

I looked at my neck, my cheeks. I attempted a smile, and the dimples revealed themselves like a passing 'hello'. I caressed my collar bones, and my breasts, down to my stomach, and then my thighs. The fucker had sat on my knees; he'd kept me from moving and wriggling out of his grip.

_You should have struggled harder._

Maybe, but the guy was three times my weight. Not even Jim could have gotten out of that scrape.

_Thank goodness for Falcone's intervention._

Thank goodness, indeed…. not for Falcone, but for Oswald.

There was a knock on the door.

_Speak of the devil._

"Come in."

Oswald opened the door, dressed in a different suit. He looked snazzy, wearing a white long-sleeve shirt under an azure-colored vest, his raven hair doing the disco vampire thing. His dress coat was no doubt hanging on the coat rack near the front door. I observed his reflection as he glanced at my naked figure.

For the umpteenth time, he asked if I was okay.

"No," I finally admitted, my voice shaking with the confession. "I'm not okay." I crossed my hands over my chest, looking at him.

"You're right, I apologize…. Stupid question," said Oswald, clearing his throat.

He stood beside me, looking at his reflection as well. He glanced uneasily at me, probably wondering why I was standing naked in front of the mirror, staring at myself. I glanced down and wiggled my toes on the carpet, aware that they were moving, aware that the carpet below was supposed to be soft but not able to realize that it was _I_ who moved my own toes. It was a detaching feeling, like something out of a sci-fi flick.

Oswald said softly, "If you're having second doubts about the dinner, you can tell me."

"Thank you. But I still want to go."

Oswald sat on the edge of the bed, watching me. After a moment, I felt embarrassed, so I covered my chest, turning to him.

"What are you thinking?" I inquired.

"You don't want to know," Oswald reassured with a small smile.

"I do want to know."

Oswald sighed, unwilling. But he saw my consistent gaze.

"I'm thinking that you…." he began, hesitating as I walked towards him.

He continued: "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I'm thinking that—for the time being—you don't see that yourself. But…." (He paused when I stood before him and continued when I had no objections.) "…. But with you standing in front of me as you are, I want nothing more than to have you underneath me while I make love to you in every way, shape, or form that I can possibly think of."

He waited for my response.

"Then why don't you." I told him quietly.

"Sylvia, after everything that has happened—"

"Don't _treat_ me like I'm some injured animal!" I lashed out.

He looked up at me in surprise, and he emitted a gasp when I pushed him on his back and straddled his waist.

" _You_ asked me how you can make me feel better," I said boldly. "If you want to make me feel better, make love to me _right_ now. Show me…. show me I am still yours!"

Oswald stared up at me.

I felt my eyes sting with fresh tears.

" _Please_ , baby," I pleaded. "Please make me yours again. I still feel him touching me, I feel _it_. And I don't want to feel this way anymore!"

Oswald sat up cautiously, and he guided me off him, brushing the tears from my face.

"Sylvia, look at me." He said gently.

I couldn't.

"Pigeon, _look_ at me," Oswald said more firmly.

My face burned with mortification—I literally threw myself at him not a minute ago and now I wanted nothing more than to roll myself into a ball and hide in a closet.

He said gently, "You _are_ still mine. You always have been, always will be. What happened in the restaurant was _not_ your fault. If anyone says otherwise, I will make it my highest priority to shoot them myself."

I felt more tears fall from my eyelashes, rolling down my cheeks and they were like razor blades cutting further into my pride. He cradled my face in his hands, his thumbs wiped them away and he kissed my forehead.

And I smiled.

I placed my hands on his shoulders, looking at his vest and smiled in spite of myself.

"You look good in blue," I mumbled.

He placed his hands over mine, saying, "Thank you. Did you still want to go to the dinner?"

I nodded.

"Then you might want to get dressed, Pigeon. Otherwise, they'll give our table away."

I stood. He walked to the closet and laid out a black dress on the bed.

_Remember the last time you wore the skirt? What will happen, you think, if you wear the dress?_

I nervously bit my lip and considered those options. Oswald seemed to somehow follow the same thought process. He took my hand and pulled me to him; I languidly followed.

"You won't be wearing it for _them_ ," Oswald reassured.

"I'll be wearing it for **me** ," I stated, smiling.

"That's my girl," He said proudly. He gestured behind him, saying, "I'll be in the living room."

"Okay…." I whispered.

He closed the door with a _click_ on his way out of the bedroom. I glanced at the door before looking uncertainly at the dress.

I pulled my hair into bun, staring into the mirror as I had done before. The dress covered one shoulder, leaving the other bare. There was a slit in the dress that rode up to my right knee, and I gave it a double-doubter thought. I took a deep breath in and a shaky breath out.

_Be proud,_ I thought. _You bit the bastard's pecker off—you shot him in the balls…. you're a bad ass. And you don't go down easy, do you?_

I smiled at the mirror, and a redhead with ruby lipstick smiled right back at me.

Due to the fact of my wearing a dress, I was forced to compromise: I had to carry a handbag. But I wasn't left _entirely_ dependent on it. While inside it was a handgun, I kept a knife strapped to my left outer thigh in any case things got a little physical. I'd always been the paranoid one (thanks to growing up with a Gotham City District Attorney and lawful brother), but now I felt hyper-vigilant.

That would probably destroy someone who wasn't used to the eccentricity that was Gotham City, but since I had plenty of practice, I figured 'fuck it all, why not you know. Let's add a little _more_ paranoia into the mix'.

Stepping out of the bedroom was almost a living dream. When Oswald turned, hearing me close the bedroom door, the look on his face made me bloom. He appeared mesmerized, even though he had seen me in this dress a million times before.

"Stunning as always," Oswald commented, making me blush.

"Oh, _shush_ ," I said, smiling at him.

He held my hand and we walked to the elevator doors, stepping inside with two other gentlemen. I glanced between the two men. Oswald withdrew his hand from mine and placed it on my lower back. The gesture, however simple, made me feel safer, more protected.

If Oswald had never been overprotective before, he certainly was now.

When the elevator doors opened, he insisted that the two gentlemen go before us. He and I walked outside where, like always, Gabe was waiting for us. He smiled kindly at me, and I returned it politely. Like before, Oswald crawled into the back seat with me.

"Hi, Gabe," I greeted as I always did.

"Good evening, Miss G. Where's this place again?" Gabe asked, glancing in the rear-view mirror at Oswald.

"Three stoplights ahead, turn right, and it'll be on your left," Oswald replied.

His arm went around my shoulders, pulling me to him. I smiled inwardly, warmed by his embrace. I nuzzled the crook of his neck.

"I'll make sure nothing like that ever happens to you, Pigeon," Oswald spoke evenly.

I glanced up at him, and saw that Oswald was staring angrily out the window. Such a contrast to the soft, gentle tone that had come out of him just a second ago. I reckoned on some level, he blamed himself—I knew he did. I may have stopped him from apologizing, but I was certain he still felt remorseful for what happened with Mack…. maybe even before that.

"You can't promise me something like that."

"I can certainly try," Oswald reassured coolly. "From now on, you'll have a guard with you."

"Tomas is nice."

"Who?"

Gabe chimed in: "Tomas—Frankie Carbone's guy."

I giggled, " _You_ were Frankie Carbone's guy. Which makes me wonder, why are you here? I mean, weren't you technically Maroni's guy?"

"Well," said Gabe, smiling, "Penguin pays more, and I don't mind your company, Miss G. Tomas was the other- _other_ guy."

The car came to a slow halt at the stop light.

I nuzzled Oswald's chest, breathing in his cologne. I poked the gold and cobalt blue pocket square, whispering, " _Boop_!" He looked down when he felt the gentle prod of my finger.

"Your mother should be proud; you have to be the most gentlemanly gentleman ever. You know, I was serious when I was asking you to fuck me in the bedroom. I wasn't just in the middle of an emotional crisis."

"You've experienced something unforgivable, Sylvia." (Gabe glanced at us in the rear-view mirror inquisitively) "I refuse to take advantage of your vulnerability," said Oswald sternly. "Especially if _I_ wasn't the one who caused it."

"By that logic, if you did cause me to feel vulnerable, you _would_ take advantage of it."

"Oh, absolutely," Oswald agreed.

I giggled, burrowing my face into his jacket. His fingers laced through my hair, massaging my scalp with soft presses of his fingertips.

"Stop lights are taking forever," Gabe muttered, shaking his head slowly in disappointment.

Oswald's massaging fingertips slowly left my head and braced along my neck, rubbing my nape with just enough pressure that I was certain if he continued, I would fall asleep. His other hand held my own, his thumb stroking concentric circles over my knuckles. I glanced up to see that he was looking out the window still, lost in thought.

"How's your mom?" I asked, hoping to bring Oswald back to reality.

He was startled by the question as his mind was plunged back into the car with me: "What?"

"Your mom. How is she?"

"She's fine," Oswald answered calmly. "She's knitting again."

"She knows how to knit?"

"Since I can remember."

"That's nice. I feel like it's an old woman characteristic," I said softly. "It's like once they hit a certain age, elderly women just know how to do it. Or maybe they've done everything else that they just take it on as another challenge."

"The last describes my mother," Oswald decided.

"It certainly sounds like her."

"She's not a bad dancer," Gabe chimed in.

"She taught me to waltz," I recalled, grinning at the thought.

Oswald rubbed the back of my neck with his thumb, index and middle finger, massaging my neck and squeezing gently.

"Ozzie, if you keep doing that, you're going to put me to sleep." I murmured.

" _MOVE!"_ Gabe shouted (Oswald and I jumped), honking his horn. "The light is green! Go!"

I giggled—having never heard the man yell before in my entire life. As though the cars ahead heard him, they all started moving, and resumed normal traffic flow. In a few more minutes, he stopped once more. I expected the same response, but instead….

"We're here," Gabe announced, more in relief than as a statement.

Oswald and I shifted and Gabe opened the door. Like before, Oswald kept his hand on the small of my back. And we walked into the restaurant. This was not as lavish as the French-themed one we'd been to before, but for me, it became an instant favorite.

It had an older-time feel to it. Gingerbread-colored top and bottom borders framed the canary walls; all the pictures were black and white or of grainy value, set behind glass within onyx frames. Stained glass images of cattle, angels, and waterfalls imprinted on lamps hung from the ceiling above every two tables. The ceiling itself seemed to reach high as the sky meeting a triangular peak.

Oswald led me to a table, specifically. Circular-seated chairs with almond-shaped backings were placed on opposing ends; the centerpiece was a vase full of fresh, white lilies. Silverware folded in napkins were placed on opposing ends, adjacent to the other.

I sat in one, and Oswald sat across from me. In front of the centerpiece was a label titled 'Cobblepot'.

"Waiter…." I caught a male who was dressed in red and gold, and he stopped by with a smile.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Do you happen to have a pen that I can borrow for like a minute?"

Oswald watched in amusement as the waiter dug into this black apron and pulled out a dull pencil, handing it to me. I thanked him sweetly, and he went on his way.

"What are you….?"

"Sh-sh," I said, smirking. "I _just_ had an idea."

I took the label reading his name and started drawing underneath the letters. After a moment passed, the same waiter from whom I had borrowed the pencil stopped by and I gave it back to him, thanking him once more.

"What was that all about?" Oswald asked, glancing at the staff member before turning to look at me.

"Look." I giggled.

He took the label and squinted to see what I had drawn—it was a doodle of a penguin. He chuckled.

"It looks more like a chicken," Oswald admitted.

"How so?"

"The feathers on penguins don't extend outward," Oswald pointed out. "If anything, it looks more like a pigeon."

"So, what, you're an expert on birds?"

Oswald smiled at me: a nonverbal answer of 'yes'.

"Mmm," I sighed. "Perhaps you have a point. I've never seen a penguin with a hand-shaped butt before, that's for sure. _Waiter_!"

I caught a different one this time. This male looked less than amused that I caught him rather than the former who appeared grateful that I had even noticed him.

"Do you have a pen?" I asked.

"Yeah, why?"

"Could I borrow it?" I said sweetly, smiling.

"Why?"

"I'd like to draw something," I explained.

He joked, "It'll cost you a pretty penny."

"Please?" I even made puppy dog eyes.

"Fine…." He muttered. Like the last one, he dug into his apron and pulled out an actual pen. He handed it to me.

"Thanks!" I chirped.

Oswald placed his chin in the center of his palm, watching me.

"If you don't get this drawing right, are you going to flag down another one?" Oswald asked, half-seriously.

"Maybe."

"That sounds really cumbersome."

"Cumbersome," I repeated. "But necessary. What about now?"

I placed the label in front of him.

Oswald looked at it again.

"Now the pigeon looks like a swan," He noted. In reference to the new doodle, he asked, "And…. what is that supposed to be?"

"A penguin."

"That doesn't even look _remotely_ like a bird," Oswald criticized, but he was laughing.

"What do you think it looks like?"

"An angry raccoon," Oswald guessed, shrugging. "Or something along the lines of it. What was this supposed to be again?"

I took the label from him saying with a suppressed grin, "A _penguin_."

"Well, I have to admit, Pidge….it looks nothing like it, but I commend your effort."

"Fine. _You_ draw a penguin, and let's see how great it looks."

"No."

"Why not?" I teased. "Afraid I'll make fun?"

Oswald sighed, recognizing a challenge when he heard one. So, without further ado, he took the pen and label, turned it over, and doodled on the other side. In a few minutes, he slid it to me along with the pen. I gave it a look.

"That's…. that's a spot, Ozzie. That's—you literally drew a spot."

" _That's_ a penguin. It's just standing _very, **very**_ far away," Oswald pointed out. "And you cannot tell me otherwise."

I tried to stifle it but the laugh came out regardless of my effort. And he laughed shortly after.

Then the same waiter from who I had borrowed the pen came by.

"May I have it back?" He asked politely.

"Sure," I said, handing it to him.

He thanked me and walked away.

"I'm glad to see you smiling again," Oswald pointed out.

""It's not hard to do when I'm around you."

He smiled shyly in response and I grinned.

Another waiter came by. He was dressed in the same red and gold with the black apron. He was—in all rights by comparison—a lot older, at least by ten years than the last two. He was well-built with broad shoulders, large hands, and when he placed a menu in front of us, he kept a perfect posture. His beard was well-trimmed and when he spoke, it sounded like he was well-educated.

"Everything served in the kitchen is on the menu, but if I could give a recommendation?" He articulated professionally.

"Sure?" I guessed, glancing curiously at Oswald, who shrugged in response.

The waiter threw out a few suggestions regarding a roasted buffalo and a dessert that had a unique description all on its own.

"What's the name of that dessert again?" I asked.

"It's called…." the waiter cleared his throat in humiliation before repeating reluctantly, "The Orgy."

I stifled a laugh: "What—what does that have in it?"

"Double chocolate chip ice cream, three scoops of candy per the customer's choice, and all of this is spooned into a bowl with a slice of strawberry short-cake and….and a banana," the waiter informed.

His face blushed a shade of pink when he said the word 'banana'.

"Why do _you_ recommend this? Have you had an orgy before?"

"The Orgy," the waiter continued, "is a customer's favorite."

"No, no, no. You misunderstand," I said, leaning towards him. "Have _you_ ever had one?"

"I…. yes, I've eaten the ice cream," said the waiter uncomfortably. "It's phenomenal."

"Good to know," I said, turning back to Oswald.

Oswald shook his head disapprovingly, but suppressed a sly smile of his own.

"Do you need a moment to decide?" The waiter asked.

"On the dinner, yes," I said, smirking at Oswald. "Who needs to think twice about an orgy, though?"

"I'll be back," the waiter said quickly. "My name is William, and I will be server tonight. Please alert me when you are ready."

"Sure thing," I replied, smirking after him.

When he was gone, Oswald and I cracked up.

"He's like a beet! Oh my god!" I leaned back in my chair. "Oh, I'm about to fucking piss myself! I needed that. Now, let's see what's on the menu…. did he mention roasted buffalo?"

"Next page," Oswald said without looking up from his menu.

I flipped the page of my menu, and sure as shit—there it was.

"'Bison' and 'Buffalo' are used interchangeably," I noted. "I thought they were different."

"They are." Oswald confirmed. "It's a common mistake."

"Like when people mistake pigeons for doves and vice versa."

"Exactly."

"They have potato soup. If that's not the laziest dish, I don't know what is."

"How do you mean?" Oswald asked, glancing up at me.

"I'll put a bowl of potatoes in front of you, add some broth, butter, and melted cheese, and you'll know what I mean," I returned, smiling widely at him.

"I do not think that is how it's made."

"Then you do _not_ want me to make you potato soup," I responded smartly. "There's a broccoli soup."

"Your formula works accurately for that one."

"Not exactly. I don't like broccoli. I'm not going to make something that I don't like."

"What if I liked it?"

"But you don't."

He persisted: "For argument's sake, let's say that I _did_."

"I still wouldn't make it. Unless, maybe, if it was your birthday."

"That's coming up."

"No, it's not," I corrected. "Don't you try that shit again."

Oswald chuckled, lowering his eyes back to his menu.

The waiter by the name of William came by and he stood to our side, awaiting an answer. I lowered my menu and smiled at him. He was about the same age as Oswald and me, maybe a little older, but there was a youthful look about him in the eyes.

"Do you have a girlfriend, William?" I asked curiously.

Oswald reprimanded, "That's a little personal, don't you think?"

"If it is, he can decline to answer." I offered, smiling kindly at the waiter. "Do you have one?"

"No," He admitted. "I don't."

"Why not?"

" _Sylvia_."

"What?" I questioned coolly. "If he's feeling uncomfortable, he will let me know…. Won't you, William?"

"I don't know why I am single," William replied, glancing at Oswald then to me. "Why do you ask?"

I shrugged saying, "Just curious."

"Have you decided what to order?" William asked.

"Not just yet," I said, smiling mischievously. "Is William your _real_ name?"

"Yes." He answered then he added quickly, "Should I come back or…."

"Sure, but I have one more question."

"Okay…."

I said softly, "Do you like boys or girls?"

"I'm uncomfortable."

"Okay." I said, smiling. "You don't have to answer that one. We'll flag you down when we're ready."

He nodded dutifully and quickly hurried off. I watched him go behind a counter to greet another young couple. When I turned back in my seat, Oswald was staring at me.

"What?" I asked innocently.

"What has gotten into you?" Oswald questioned.

"What has gotten into me when?"

"You're acting different."

"Should I be acting the same?" I replied coolly.

"I don't expect you to act as you've always been, but I think you may have crossed the boundary lines with the help."

"I crossed the 'boundary lines'? I'm having _fun_ , Oswald. You know how much I like playing with people."

"You don't think you went a little overboard?"

"You want to know why I'm acting this way…." I said, smirking at him. "Fine. He had boundaries. I wanted to see how much he'd take before he finally broke. Since everyone else has been testing mine."

"I don't understand."

"Gotham's people can fuck off with their own boundaries. They clearly don't care about mine. That's my point."

"I understand that you're angry about what happened, but—"

"Oh yeah, I'm angry. I'm trying to continue—to move on—and make sure my life goes on despite the fucker putting his fingers up my box." I smiled dangerously saying, "How I am currently dealing with it is making people feel embarrassed just as I felt and, baby, I must admit: it feels **great.** "

"I understand _that,_ " Oswald reassured patiently "What I _do not_ understand is why you're doing it **here**. You could go out with Victor and have a killing spree and be just as free to do whatever you liked to whomever Falcone wants dead. Why you prefer to embarrass the staff is beyond my understanding."

I leaned back in my seat, gave it a minute's thought and said, "You know. That never occurred to me."

Oswald smiled and said happily, "Options!"

"You're right," I said enthusiastically. "I might take you up on that offer. Thank you!"

"You're welcome."

"I'll flag down William. I'm about ready to order. You?"

"Flag him down," Oswald insisted, holding his hand out to me.

William hesitantly stood at our side a moment later.

"I'm sorry for embarrassing you," I said sincerely. "I'm just going through a phase."

"No offense taken. What can I get you?"

We gave him the orders and then he collected our menus, leaving the table. I placed my chin on the back of my clasped hands, smirking at Oswald who looked back at me expectantly.

"So…." I sighed. "What did Maroni do to _you_?"

" _Tried_ to do," Oswald corrected. "There's a difference."

"Mm. Enlighten me," I said sweetly. "You said you and Don Maroni were going to talk about whatever at the restaurant. Before I know it, you and him were gone. So, where'd you go?"

"To a cabin in the woods," Oswald replied stoically.

"That sounds like the beginning of a horror movie."

"You have no idea."

William walked by and placed our beverages in front of us: Oswald ordered tea; I asked for a coke. He said our dinner would be on the table in about fifteen minutes. We weren't in any hurry, we told him. Relieved that we were relaxed, William said he'd be back for any requests in a few minutes. I turned to Oswald and gestured for him to continue.

"He made a game of it, naturally," Oswald said, rolling his eyes.

"What game?"

"Telling secrets. A game of quid pro quo, so to speak."

"Like I would tell you a secret, then you'd have to tell me one in return."

Oswald said humorously, "I see you've played before."

I giggled at the joke.

He continued: "He mentioned that he had spoken to Fish on the phone; bitch told him everything. He believed her. Maroni then proceeded to punch me into unconsciousness. Afterwards, he locked me in his trunk and later, he tried to crush me alive in a sedan."

I stared at him; my mouth open. He took a drink of his tea.

"That's a lot to happen in one night," I noted. "So how did you end up with Falcone in all of this?"

"I escaped, found a bus full of Christians who have an affinity for singing the entire journey _back_ to Gotham. It certainly brought back several memories of my childhood. Shortly after I returned to Gotham, I spoke with Don Falcone at Mooney's old club."

"Why were you there?"

"Time and circumstance."

"What will happen to Mooney's club?"

Oswald smiled secretively: "That is actually why I was calling you in the first place. He told me I can have the club."

"You're kidding!" I gasped.

"I'm not!"

"That's amazing!" I gushed. I held his hand in mine, squeezing it. "Congratulations, Ozzie!"

"Thank you," He said modestly, grinning widely. "I was just as shocked as you are."

"Are you going to redecorate?" I asked excitedly.

"That's the plan. Falcone definitely is on board with the remodeling. He doesn't want it to resemble anything like Mooney's."

"Well, tell me your ideas—I know you have plenty!"

Oswald began to tell me before a noise started going off. I bit back an irritating sigh, recognizing the ringtone. He could recognize it by now as well. I looked at him apologetically.

"Answer it," He encouraged.

I took out my phone from my handbag and answered it.

"Jim." I greeted the caller.

"Are you okay—I heard Cobblepot went public with Falcone."

"Just peachy—like usual," I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "Why would I not be okay?"

"You sound like you're lying."

"Maybe I am," I said smoothly.

"Sylvia, are you _sure_ you're okay?"

"I'm not okay, James. But I will be," I said calmly, looking at Oswald who smiled at me. "I've got that Gordon DNA, you know, Jim? That good ole blood that keeps the fire from going out."

Jim was quiet on the other line before he spoke once more: "You don't sound like yourself."

"Funny, I feel like myself. More than ever, actually. How've you been?"

"Fine…. Vee, if something happened, you'd let me know, right?"

"I'll let you know something right now, but you might want to have a seat."

I heard a clutter and recognized it as a chair being scooted across a wooden floor. Jim was _literally_ taking my advice to sit down.

"Tell me."

"Two of Maroni's men ambushed me," I said stoically. "They barricaded the door and one of them sexually assaulted me." (Oswald's smile faltered as I spoke aloud). "He hiked up my skirt, put his fingers inside me, and then tried to rape me. Falcone's men intervened."

"Vee—"

"I'm not finished talking, Jimmy. You wanted to know—so here it is." I responded harshly. "When Falcone arrived, he offered me retribution for what happened to me. I made the guy hard as a rock, put my mouth on his dick, and I bit it off. I shoved it down his throat, shot him in the testicles, and I watched the fucker bleed to death. Falcone patted me on the back, I went home, and now I am having dinner at a lovely restaurant with my wonderful fiancé—a dinner that _you_ are interrupting. Questions?"

Oswald looked at me with both surprise and admiration as I waited for Jim's response.

"Have you told the police about this?"

I chuckled darkly, "What are the police going to do? I shot the guy that tried to rape me. If that's not justice, I don't want to know what it is. Now, I would love to chat, but I'm a bit preoccupied. Love you!"

I hung up and placed the phone in my handbag. I looked up at Oswald.

"You're certainly making a quick recovery," He noted.

"Is that what it is?" I uttered smoothly. "I don't know what it is, but I feel like I just _ooze_ confidence...and maybe a little eccentricity."

Oswald's face turned a bright shade of pink. I couldn't tell if he was embarrassed by my lackadaisical behavior or turned on by it. Either way, I placed my purse at my feet and unrolled my napkin.

I started conversationally, "This game of Maroni's intrigues me. In fact…Oswald, tell me something about yourself that I don't already know."

He looked at me blankly.

"Anything," I encouraged.

"All right," Oswald said slowly. "Um. When I was five years old, I once tried to eat all the marshmallows in my Lucky Charms cereal box while avoiding the grain alphabet."

I snorted, "That's an interesting start."

Oswald held his hand out to me.

My turn.

"When Jim and I were teenagers—before he went to war—we used to play wrestle in his room," I narrated. "With most brothers or sisters, the brother would always let the sister win due to differences in strength, that sort of thing. But Jim was different."

"How so?" Oswald asked.

"He would do everything he could _not_ to let me win. I mean, these playful wrestling matches would end in blood shed—he'd kick me, I'd bite him—it was a catastrophe!" I laughed. "Every afternoon, when my father was finished with court, he would come home, and he'd see Jim and I locked in each other's grip and shouting at each other to say 'UNCLE'! And then he would break us up."

"How would one determine the victor then," Oswald said curiously, "if your father separated the two of you?"

"Not every fight happened when Dad was home."

"Who was the usual victor?" He asked eagerly.

"Normally it was me," I said proudly, smirking. "He has the strength, the agility, but me—I have the pain tolerance." I took a sip of my coke and added, "But he'll never admit it. He never admitted it before, and he won't admit it now."

"And I thought I knew everything about you, Pidge."

"Not nearly everything," I said, winking. "Your turn."

"I have something, but you might not like it." Oswald admitted, but he was smiling.

"Is it creepy?"

"In some fashion."

I crossed my arms on the table and leaned forward: "Do tell."

Oswald cleared his throat before speaking and said shyly, "The first time I saw you wasn't when we were working at Fish Mooney's."

"Really, now?" I said mischievously. "When did we first meet?"

"Not when we first ' _met_ '," Oswald specified. "When I first _saw_ you." (His right hand fiddled with the napkin, unraveling it slowly.) "You were in the Gotham Public Library, studying a book at a table. It was about a year before we officially met."

"Really? Where were _you_?"

"Behind a bookshelf," said Oswald reservedly, smiling as such. "You wore a black shirt, jeans, boots…."

His eyes looked past the silverware, the table, like he was going right back to the same moment.

He continued softly, "When you read, you had a habit of twisting your hair around your finger and you noticed no one."

"Well, _not_ no one," I muttered.

Oswald said with the same shy smile, "The book you read fully enveloped you, so much that the loud children reading together in the next cubicle didn't draw your attention. I watched you for only a moment; you stood and left, leaving your book open. I had to know what kept a woman's undivided attention."

I tilted my head to the side.

_My god, what a memory._

"What was I reading about?" I asked incredulously. " _I_ don't even remember."

"Birds." Oswald blurted. He looked up at me. "An encyclopedia. You were reading about penguins."

I blinked and felt a warm pool of adulation wrap itself around my body, like a comforting, electric blanket. Oswald's eyes were bright, and his eyelashes flickered like he, too, was surprised that he had remembered the detail.

"From that moment on," Oswald said quietly. "I'd hoped our paths would cross yet again."

"A year later, you and I end up working for the same woman. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is."

"That was my sentiment exactly," Oswald agreed.

"I _do_ like the animal...Penguins, I mean," I said, smiling. "The little babies are so fluffy."

The depth of his love shined from that memory. I leaned forward and kissed him. When he returned it, I reinforced it passionately, and broke it naturally as I sat back in my seat.

The waiter, William, came back: "The chef notified me that your meal will be ready in ten minutes."

"Sounds like a plan, Chief," I remarked.

He nodded, then left to get us a refill.

Oswald gestured to me: "Your turn."

"Ah, yes." I mused. "Well…. I _do_ have something, but it's a little...risqué."

"Lay it on me," Oswald implored.

I smiled shyly. A look that he rarely saw on my face. Seeing it now, Oswald smirked.

With _great_ consideration, I took a deep breath and I said "I have something of a reoccurring sexual fantasy. About you."

"Really?" Oswald said, sharing my smile. "Tell me."

"I will," I promised. "But I won't make it easy for you."

"Do you believe I will think badly of you once I hear it?"

"Honestly? Maybe," I confessed. "You would not be the first person I've had this fantasy about, and if I tell you what it is, you might respond negatively; it wouldn't be the first for that to happen to me."

"I won't judge." Oswald promised. He held out his hand encouragingly. "Please."

"Fine." I exhaled completely before I spoke: "My fantasy is that I come home and it's dark. And you come up from behind me, you rip off my clothes, tear them off me. I start screaming, but you shove my face down into the bed, put a knife against my neck, and you call me your whore…."

I trailed off and cleared my throat.

"It was a lot easier to say this in my head than actually _say_ it aloud," I muttered.

William came by and placed our entrees down in front of us. I thanked him kindly and he left. I glanced at Oswald who was watching me—not only without judgment, but with intrigue.

"Tell me more," He encouraged.

"It only gets worse," I responded timidly.

We unraveled our forks and knives completely and we started eating. Oswald gestured for me to continue, and I did it now just to get it all out in the open. _Why stop there after all…._ As I spoke, I was aware that while my face was getting hotter, my panties were getting wet from just talking about it.

"When you fuck me, the knife is against my throat. I'm telling you to stop, but it only spurs you on." I said—now I just avoided his gaze and became preoccupied with rolling the tomato around my plate with my fork. "Your hand covers my mouth; I try to escape, but I can't. I'm pinned between the mattress and underneath the weight of your body."

William stopped by again, and I felt my entire face become beet red—just as his was a few moments ago. I chanced a glimpse at Oswald, a small little sly smile on his face that I couldn't help but notice. William asked if we wanted to order any alcoholic beverages. Oswald declined, and I did as well.

_Maybe later to drown my humiliation._

Oswald smiled at me when the waiter left once more: "Keep going."

"We go on like that for hours….and when I come, I come like I haven't before. It's so intense, my body convulses, I lose control."

I looked at him. My entire body was lit on fire with embarrassment.

Then seeing him...His lips were parted, his eyes narrowed slightly like he was just imagining the entire scenario clear as day in his head. I cleared my throat, downed my full glass of coke, and patted my lips with my shriveled napkin which I'd been inadvertently unraveling and shredded with my other hand as I revealed my fantasy.

"Wow." Oswald sighed deeply. "That…. that is very…."

I waited for the rejection, the statement that I was odd or something like that. But it never came.

"That's very uncanny," Oswald said finally.

"What?" I breathed.

Oswald licked his lips and said, "It is uncanny that you would have this idea since the same thought has occurred to me as well. Almost entirely as you described."

"Well, I..." I began but stopped myself. And I smiled: "What do you mean 'almost'?"

Oswald smirked: "Yes, Pigeon. 'Almost'. The only difference between yours and mine is that you are on your stomach, not your back. It has a certain element of surprise that your fantasy lacks."

"Such a critic," I teased, leaning back in my chair. "How many times have you thought about it?"

"Any time you come home late," Oswald confessed. "You?"

"Same."

Oswald's smile sobered and he asked with a little concern, "Have the recent events changed it any?"

I shrugged saying, "Not really. What happened in the office was out of my control—every aspect of it was. But this fantasy I have with you, the one we're talking about…. it's all within a certain amount of control. If we did this, I know without a doubt that you would not truly hurt me whereas Mack was a fucking pig and his every intention _was_ bent on physical harm."

Oswald tilted his head slightly at my objective response.

"You have an interesting insight."

I said smoothly, "When you've had a DA for a father and a detective for a brother, you kind of learn to see everything objectively."

"Does it make it any easier to deal with what happened?" Oswald asked.

"On some levels," I said calmly. "I suppose that I still feel guilty that it all happened the way it did. I _know_ it isn't my fault" (Oswald was about to say it wasn't) "but that doesn't make me feel any less helpless or angry about what happened."

I placed my hand on his.

"Talking to you about it has made me feel a little better about the ordeal," I confided. "It may not seem like it, but you still make me feel safe. Protected. That is a lot more than what anyone else has ever done for me."

"Even Jim Gordon?" Oswald suggested.

"Especially Jim Gordon," I agreed strongly. "But…. I have to give credit where credit is due; I never thought the pizza codes would come in handy."

"I thought it was brilliant."

"All Jim," I said, raising my hands in surrender. "He taught me that."

"I am glad he did," He said sincerely.

There was a natural silent pause in our conversation during which we ate some of the dinner, glancing up at each other to smile and then continue eating. It wasn't that awkward silence one would experience with their parents or their two-month-running girlfriend. It was such a comfortable silence that I didn't have to feel like I had to speak about anything to make it tolerable.

Oswald drank the rest of his tea and placed the cup down with a finality.

"I have an idea for the club that might interest you," He said smoothly.

"Color me intrigued."

"In the process of me getting together a list of entertainment, I figured you would be interested in being a part of it," Oswald said lightly. "If you wanted to sing on stage, I would be happy to grant you the opportunity."

I said politely, "I'm flattered, but I don't want to sing."

Oswald looked taken aback: "I thought you'd like to."

"I don't. I sing well," I said confidently. "I've been told that by several people, you included. I know I sing well but singing in front of people gives me the heebie jeebies."

"You sing beautifully."

"I know. But not everyone who sings well wants to be a singer. Just like every person who is good at math doesn't want to become an accountant or a mathematician."

"Then what _do_ you want?"

"A job," I said simply. "The same one, if possible. Working in the restaurant is a no-go now that the cat is out of the bag; Maroni will find someone else to work the restaurant now that you and I have been officially fired."

"Pigeon, you don't have to work for me."

"I _like_ working for you," I insisted. "I like having you as a boss. Makes me feel needed, wanted…. Not to mention it's fucking sexy as hell."

"I thought you hated the reputation."

"It grew on me. When you really look at it, you're my fiancé who just _happens_ to be my boss. Someone from the inside doesn't see it as an insult like someone from the outside would. And I don't mind the perks."

"Such as?"

"I get to sleep with you in your office," I said slyly, winking at him.

"Is that a perk?"

"I'd call it one."

William dropped by again. I welcomed him and said, "Are you still offering alcoholic beverages?"

He nodded.

"I'll take a glass of vodka. Is the ice cream still available—what's it called again?"

"The Orgy."

I burst out laughing and the waiter glanced helplessly at Oswald.

William cleared his throat uncomfortably saying, "I'll be back with your order, ma'am."

"I'll manage your staff," I said, gathering my giggles under control, "So you can worry about everything else: the entertainment, the finances, blah, blah, blah…."

"What of your adventures with Victor Zsasz? I'm assuming you are still aspiring to be a contracted killer?"

I sighed, "Don't know. We'll see."

"Don't you still have a deal with him?" Oswald recalled.

"I do, but he said I could back out anytime," I returned calmly. "We've had one 'adventure' together and that's when he shot Bob in the head, and he calls me his 'student'. If I go on three more, he'll refer to me as his daughter." I added as an afterthought, "It wouldn't be a bad thought if he was the one sending me off during the wedding; it'd be a lovely ceremony, actually."

William came back with my ice cream and the glass of vodka I asked for.

Seeing this legendary orgasmic dairy dessert was something to be put on one's bucket list. It filled an entire bowl and underneath the chocolate ice cream was, indeed, a slice of strawberry shortcake and one long-ass banana. I took a spoonful and tried to get everything on it and took a bite.

I smiled widely.

"My **god**!" I exclaimed. "It's like the ice cream and cheesecake fucked all night and had themselves a banana chocolate child and named it 'Hosanna'." I took another spoonful and held it over the bowl to Oswald.

"Taste it."

"I would rather not."

"Do it." I urged, and I poked the spoon against his nose.

"Sylvia…."

"Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it—"

"Alright!" Oswald said loudly. He took my spoon and put it in his mouth. Then a look of genuine surprise and satisfaction replaced the slighted annoyed expression on his face.

"Good, yeah?"

"It certainly deserves its name."

"Its true name? No. Now if there were five bowls on the table, _that_ would be an orgy."

"That's going overboard, I think."

"Don't think, Ozzie. Just eat. Grab a spoon."

"Sylvia—"

I took several swigs of vodka, choked it down, and ate three spoons of the ice cream for the chaser. I slammed the cup down and offered another bite to Oswald.

"Sylvia, no."

"SAY YES TO LIFE!" I screamed.

Everyone in the diner glanced around at us.

"Alright, I believe it is time to go." Oswald said gently. He gingerly took the spoon away from me. "Come on, Sylvia."

A man in the back said, "Woo! YOLO!"

"FUCK YOU!" I shouted. "It's not fucking 'YOLO'. That makes no sense—you only die once; you live every day." I said to Oswald, "Unless one believes in reincarnation, but that's a whole different philosophical bend that adolescent concepts don't apply."

"Point proven, Pidge, keep moving."

I was dimly aware of being led out of the diner and taken home.

**Chapter 10: His Queen**

A/N: I had a lot more fun writing this than I should have ;)

Oswald began to take a permanent residence in my humble abode. We'd spoken about living together many times in the past but the 'incident in the office' had only reinforced the point. I had a brief meeting with my landlord who had no qualms as I always had my rent paid on time, and he'd received very few noise complaints. True to his word, Oswald appointed Tomas as my bodyguard.

Tomas and I were well acquainted. In the past, he'd driven me from place to place. As Gabe recalled, Tomas had originally been one of Frankie Carbone's men but after being given a substantial pay rise, the dark-haired muscular man that he was belonged to Oswald.

Because Tomas was going to be around me for the better part, I refused for him to sleep on the couch.

It was his first day alone with me as I made up a guest room which was down the hall from my bedroom. As I was making the bed, Tomas stood in the doorway with watchful eyes, and an otherwise stoic expression. Like Gabe, he wore a suit; he wore a slate gray jacket over a charcoal long-sleeve shirt and matching gray tie. He was a man of few words; he rarely spoke unless spoken to.

I glanced back at Tomas who continued to watch me even when I met his eyes.

"See something you like, Tomas?" I questioned calmly.

"Not at all."

I tested his loyalty. After being touched by a pig like Mack, I shuddered at any man touching me ever again…. except Oswald, of course. Now that I would have another man living under my roof, I needed that assurance, the knowing that if I decided to have a few shots of whiskey, he wouldn't betray my trust.

"'Not at all'?" I repeated, straightening. "You don't think I am attractive?"

"You're very beautiful," Tomas said calmly, remaining poised in the doorway. "Anyone can see that."

"What exactly did Penguin ask you to do?"

"To protect you."

"What were his exact words."

"I don't understand," Tomas replied robotically.

I approached him, and he didn't flinch. He stood taller than me, taller than Oswald even. I tilted my head back even to meet his eyes as I stood directly in front of him. He returned my gaze with a blank one.

"Tell me his exact instructions."

"He said that I should protect you, no matter the cost." Tomas said truthfully. "He didn't give me any specifics."

I narrowed my eyes at him, seeing if he would fold under my stare. When he didn't, I clicked my tongue and waved my hand to the bed.

"This is your room. I changed the sheets. The room has been used a few times, but my brother has a tendency to go to a buddy's place than sleep at mine."

Tomas said seriously, "Your brother…. the detective?"

"The one and only," I muttered, rolling my eyes. "Don't worry about him. He doesn't visit as often as he used to."

"Why is that?"

"Who knows—when he gets dumped again, maybe he will," I replied sarcastically. "I hear he's dating some doctor lady working at Arkham. We'll see how long this one lasts. I'll give you the grand tour, if you like."

"I'd love one, Ma'am."

I gestured for him to follow and he did. He kept his hands clasped in front of him. The way he walked reminded me of a boy who had grown too quickly and hadn't been able to experience childhood. And to me, he was that—a boy. He was at least five years younger than me, mid-twenties. Despite his youth, the way he spoke was always in a deep voice and very professional.

I presented the bathroom, the kitchen, and what was now my and Oswald's bedroom.

"And there's the grand tour," I chuckled, crossing my arms. "Do you have a girlfriend, Tomas?"

"No, Ma'am."

"Well, I doubt that will last forever," I mused, smirking. "You're Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding. I'm sure you'll find one eventually. So, I'll just lay the rules out now, shall I?"

"If you like."

"Then I will. If you _do_ get a girl…. or a guy…. whomever—they may spend the night, but you will be responsible for whatever they break, take, what-have-you." I told him calmly as I strode in the kitchen (And he followed, naturally). "I don't like parties and there's a certain twenty-four hour quiet-time in this complex. If you ever wish to have a place for yourself within the complex, let me know; the landlord and I have a mutual liking and he can be persuaded."

"You're so certain he would give me a place?"

"One-hundred ten percent certain. He has a crush on me."

Tomas frowned.

"Don't be concerned," I comforted, tapping his shoulder. "It's nothing sordid. He's sixty years old and he's happily married with two children, and four grandchildren. I'm just eye candy."

"Should I talk to this man?"

"Like I said. Don't be concerned." I emphasized. "He's _very_ happily married."

Tomas sat at the dining table. His hands went underneath, and his eyes widened. Curious, he bent over, and he pulled out a weapon. His look of surprise made me laugh.

"There's also a gun behind the refrigerator, toilet, and a knife taped under the sink," I informed casually. "On my side of the bed, I have a switch blade, so if you ever _do_ feel the need to wake me up in the middle of the night, please announce yourself."

"Duly noted," Tomas exhaled wearily. He looked around: "Do you have any actual security system? Like a burglar alarm?"

"No. Do you think I need one?"

"It wouldn't hurt. If I can't protect you, then the police would still be coming, regardless of what happens to me."

"People depend on the police way too much in this city."

"You said your brother was a detective."

"He's only one man," I debated. "And he isn't the first to hear of anything that happens to me. He's normally the last."

"May I ask why?" Tomas said politely, standing.

"You could, but it would bore you. You are paid to protect me—not to listen to the in-and-outs of my family drama. Isn't that right?"

He nodded dutifully. And just as he did, there was a knock on the door.

"Were you expecting anyone?" Tomas questioned briskly.

"No, but—"

"Stay here," He instructed, holding his hand out.

_Wow, he's another James Gordon_.

I sighed, rolling my eyes before opening the refrigerator carelessly. I took out a chilled bottle of whiskey, placing noisily on the counter before taking a glass from the cabinet. Tomas glanced back at me, annoyed, but he inched forward to the door.

There was another knock.

I strode forward, but Tomas pulled me aside. He pulled his gun out of his jacket and wrenched open the door. Oswald stood in the doorway with Tomas' gun staring him right in the face. When Tomas saw that it was him, he immediately put the safety back on and shoved it in his inner pocket.

"Jesus, I'm sorry, boss! I thought—" Tomas exclaimed.

Oswald held a hand up, silencing him. He was smiling.

"It's nice to know you're doing your job," Oswald praised, moving past him. "You've met Gabe before, haven't you?" He referred to the large man that accompanied him inside the apartment, holding two big brown bags.

"Why didn't you say it was him?" Tomas questioned of Gabe, looking more annoyed than ever. "I could have shot Penguin!"

"He wanted to test you," Gabe explained lowly. "And pipe down, man, you passed."

I glanced at the men before turning to Oswald who smiled happily at me.

"How was your meeting with the landlord?" He asked.

"Uneventful. But it went well. I just finished making the guest room, laying down the rules—that sort of thing. How's the renovation?"

Oswald gestured for Gabe to come hither and the latter strode into the kitchen, placing the brown paper bags on top of the table then strolled back into the living room to continue his conversation of what-have-you with Tomas, who crossed his arms while speaking.

I peeked inside the bags. I couldn't suppress a smile when I realized they were groceries. I gave it a glance before turning to Oswald for an explanation.

"You've cooked for me many times," Oswald said generously, taking my hand. "I thought I would make dinner tonight for a change."

"Enchanté, Prince Charming," I snickered. "I've never had a man cook for me. Spoiling the hell out of little ole me."

He rolled his eyes humorously at my tease.

"And you went grocery shopping with Gabe?"

"He knows steak better than the butcher," Oswald complimented—a comment that didn't go unheard by Gabe, who grinned at the approval.

Thomas and Gabe were discussing some sport or another.

I rolled my eyes, muttering, "Men."

"Don't I know," Oswald agreed, looking at them both.

"Gotham Knights are gonna win this summer," Gabe insisted, gesticulating passionately.

"They haven't won _all_ year," Tomas argued. "You'll be switching to the Gotham Griffins before nightfall!"

"What are you all arguing about?" I questioned.

"Baseball," Gabe and Tomas answered simultaneously as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

" _Unbelievable_ ," Oswald said under his breath, rolling his eyes.

He moved past me and started putting away the groceries, ignoring them.

"Look, _look_!" Gabe turned on the television, walked to the screen, and pointed furiously at it. "Do you see those scores? Look at that—your team is garbage, man."

"They're having a bad day," Tomas agreed. "But they'll be up in the winnings. They just need to get rid of a few people and they'll be at the top before you know it."

"Top? What top? They're barely in the middle!"

I snickered, "You traded two grown bodyguards for a couple of kids, Ozzie."

Oswald said pointedly, "Tell me something I don't know."

"Well, first things first, you put the milk in the cabinet and the cereal in the refrigerator."

He let out a sigh of exasperation. He rectified his mistake just as Gabe and Tomas were starting in about placing bets on whose team would win and whose team would be the top of some weird diagram (I don't know sports). Oswald slammed the cereal box on the counter, making all parties (myself included) jump.

" _Take_ it outside," Oswald said irritably, gesturing to the door. "Or change the _god_ forsaken topic!"

Gabe and Tomas exchanged uneasy looks.

"Wanna go get a drink?" He asked Tomas, who looked at me inquisitively.

"I'm fine," I excused him. "Go with him. Please."

Tomas and Gabe patted each other on the back like brothers, closing the door on their way out. I turned to Oswald who sighed sharply in frustration.

"Remodeling a club is putting a lot of stress on you, huh?" I said knowingly as I poured the whiskey into a shot glass and tossed it back; the after taste made my jaw clench, but damn, did it feel good.

"The remodeling, no." Oswald said briskly.

"Then what?"

"It's nothing. I've had a headache all day."

"I can punch you in the balls, that should take your mind off of that," I responded smartly, pouring another whiskey shot and downing it easily.

Oswald gave me a look of mixed irritation and confusion.

I apologized, "That's what I used to tell Jim when he complained about anything. But in all honesty, I can see you're exhausted. I'll make dinner tonight."

"Sylvia—"

"I have two shots of whiskey in me already, babe," I warned in a sweet voice. "I'm getting my way."

I unbuttoned his jacket; he shrugged it off and laid it across the kitchen table and loosened his tie. Softly, I said, "Take a shower, take time to decompress. I'll make dinner, we'll eat and…well…. we'll go from there, hmm?"

I tugged the collar of his shirt towards me and pulled him into a kiss. My tongue teased the line where his lips met, and he gave into me. My other hand dropped between us and I palmed his cock through his pants. Feeling the pressure of my hand groping him, Oswald let out a quiet involuntary moan; and I couldn't suppress the smirk that tugged at the corner of my mouth.

"Or we could skip the shower and dinner altogether," I suggested furtively.

I unzipped his pants, unbuckled his belt, and slid my hand inside his trousers and boxers, rubbing my fingers along his naked semi-erection, still growing in my hand. He held my shoulders, fingertips digging. Our kiss became hungrier. I prodded his tongue with my own, moving the battle into his mouth, dominating.

"That might be best, actually," Oswald muttered, his hands fell to my waist, pushing me back a little.

I laid kisses from his jaw to his ear and purred, "Mm….and why is that?"

"Deadline for reopening is twenty-four hours."

"As according to whom?"

"Who do you think?" Oswald responded sardonically.

He started to push me aside. I took him by the shoulders and shoved him back against the refrigerator; the appliance vibrated, and the contents inside rattled. Oswald's eyes widened at my reaction and I smiled at him.

"I told you to decompress," I said firmly. "Worrying about deadlines is _not_ decompressing."

Oswald stiffened with a retort: "I think you've had enough to drink, Sylvia."

"On a contrary, baby, I haven't had enough."

I shoved my mouth against his—the fire from the whiskey erupted in my belly; I could feel it flowing through every vessel in my body. It was going to my head. I lined my fingers along the nape of his neck, my thumb grazing down his throat. I rolled my hips into his; his hard-on pressed against my stomach.

His hands were on my hips, feeling my body move against him. To regain control, Oswald started to reach for my neck; I caught it and just like the rest of him, I pinned his wrist against the refrigerator.

"You have such a controlling nature," I chuckled darkly. "You really need to learn to let go."

I backed off. And the sight of him so disheveled, his shirt was no longer tucked in, his pants unzipped, and his cock was fully erect; he was pink in the face—it was just too great.

I returned back to unpacking the grocery bags like nothing happened. Then I felt him move behind me. He reached for my shoulders, spun me around and seized my mouth with his. Oswald pushed himself against me, grinding his cock between my legs; the friction was too delicious that I let it go on for a moment before I shoved him off me.

"Is that all you got?" I taunted.

He grabbed for me again, but I jumped back. I ran into the bedroom, waited behind the door. When he strode inside, I came out of hiding, and I pushed him forward on the bed; he glared at me indignantly from his back. I straddled his waist.

"What the _hell_ has gotten into you?" Oswald snapped.

Seeing his eyes blazing, I knew he was getting pissed off—if he wasn't already. But that's what I wanted. He shifted underneath me, but I remained sitting on him. He tried to sit up; I placed my hand on his chest and moved him onto his back once more.

"You're not meeting any deadlines."

"Falcone expressly said—"

"—Falcone is _not_ in charge here, **I** am!" I retorted hotly.

Oswald's eyes widened at my response. I leaned forward and kissed his forehead, his nose, and met his lips with a contrasting softness that hadn't been displayed in the kitchen.

"I told you that you needed to learn to let go," I unbuttoned his vest and shirt. "If only for a moment. Now, sit up."

He did as I said, however irritably. I collected his shirt and vest and dropped them on the floor beside the bed. Once more, I leaned forward and kissed his lips. As annoyed as he was, he didn't return it—not that I expected him to.

"I've given myself to you many times. My submission is a gift. Just like yours will be."

"I am _not—_ "

I clamped my hand over his mouth, forcing him once more on his back. He hissed behind my palm.

"Trust me, baby. If you didn't like this idea, you wouldn't be lying down for it…. literally. You have no restraints" (I indicated the free movement of his arms and legs) "and you have _yet_ to tell me 'no'."

Oswald glared up at me in defiance, and oh my lord, did I love seeing it.

"It'll stay between us. No one will ever know." I confided. "I can give you what you are afraid to ask for."

I removed my hand from his mouth, and he just stared at me—but I could see the wanton in his eyes. I stood and closed the bedroom door, locking it. Oswald slowly sat up.

"Now…. if you feel me crossing a boundary, _do_ tell me." I said, approaching the end of the bed.

He nodded in understanding.

"Good. Now get undressed." I ordered.

At first, he hesitated, and I waited. He looked like he might protest but with some afterthought, he stood to his feet and shuffled out of his pants and boxers. I smiled when he also took his shoes and socks off. When he sat back down on the bed, the pink his face became red: humility. But that cock of his had never been stiffer.

I pulled my shirt over my head, unbuttoned my jeans, and I shimmied out of them, so I was left in black lingerie. Oswald took me in, his lips parted a little. When I approached him, he held out his hands to touch me. I took them in my own, and placed them on my stomach, and guided them up my sides, my ribs, and then over my breasts. They lingered there over the lacy fabric, before I continued to guide them down my body, past my stomach, and then over my thighs. He watched his hands as if they were not his own, transfixed.

"Move to the middle of the bed."

Oswald did as he was told, reluctantly. I joined him there.

"Do you trust me, Oswald?"

He nodded.

"Who is in charge?"

Oswald said calmly, "You."

"And what am I to you?"

He opened his mouth to answer, only to realize he didn't know.

"Trick question," I snickered. "I never said."

He sent me a glare.

"I've always said you're my King of Gotham," I mused, lying down on the bed. I slipped off my panties and bra. "In medieval times, the king ruled over everyone: the peasants, his knights, the entire realm. Anyone who stepped forward to contest him was put to death, or worse. When the King summoned, the people answered. He, however, answered to no one."

Oswald's eyes were dilated even before I began touching myself: one hand on my breast, the other cupping my sex. I slowly circled my index and middle finger around my clit, feeling the small sparks of pleasure tickle my brain and stoke the burning, aching feeling between my legs.

Stifling the moan that tried to escape, I continued: "And just as the King answers to no one, he _bows_ to no one. No one, but his Queen. Taking from that narrative, Ozzie. I'll ask again. What am I to you?"

Oswald moved closer to me.

"A Queen," He whispered.

"Good boy," I praised, smiling widely. "Now bow to _me_."

Completely willing, Oswald moved between my legs, his hands on my inner thighs as he lowered his head to my fingers that rotated around my swollen clit, kissing them. Every action he made was meticulous and gentle, but I could sense his controlling nature trying to break out; he held back a lot of restraint not to flip me on my stomach and shove his swollen member into me.

He kissed my fingers again as I continued to tease my clit, before he dipped down and licked between my wet folds. I allowed my head to fall back into the mattress, closing my eyes when his tongue delved deeper inside.

"That's it, baby," I mumbled. "Oh my god, yes…."

Oswald pushed my hand away from my clit, flicking his tongue over the bundle of nerves. I glanced down to see him do so, and his eyes met mine. He was watching my every reaction, holding onto every whisper and moan of approval. I tangled my hand in his hair, pulling the soft locks and I felt a pleasurable chill shoot down my spine when I heard him moan—the sound alone was titillating but the vibrations it caused nearly pushed me over the edge, involuntarily arching my back.

I felt two fingers push inside my pussy. In an instant, my nails dug into the comforter beneath me; I heard the naughty, wet sounds my body was making as he thrusted them in and out of me. My toes curled, my neck tensed, and I nearly forgot to breathe!

"Fuck!" I whimpered—I felt the knot tighten in my belly, my body becoming desperate for release.

**Not yet.**

I pushed Oswald away from me, grabbed a handful of his hair and shoved my mouth on his. I tasted my excitement on his tongue, and I grinned widely when I heard him moan in need.

"Get on your back." I commanded.

He quickly complied. I straddled his waist and saw the precum leaking from the slit of his cock.

"You enjoyed that more than me, I think," I taunted, wrapping my hand around his taut member. "Is that right?"

"Yes…."

"Yes, _what_?" I asked firmly. I rubbed the head of his cock against my wet entrance.

Oswald responded, "Yes, my Queen."

"Mm…. you're a quick learner. Then again, I knew that already."

Oswald clutched at the comforter; his knuckles paled white. The mixed look of pain and pleasure on his face made me grin. I couldn't help but feel just a little sadistic about this whole thing. I slipped a finger inside my pussy, fingering myself until I covered my whole hand in my excitement and used it to coat his cock. He groaned, the muscles in his neck tensing as well as the rest of him.

"Please…." Oswald whimpered.

"What's the matter, baby?"

His jaw tightened as I rolled his cock in my hands.

"You want to be inside of me, don't you?" I teased. "What if I chose to leave you like this? What if I chose to walk away? What would you do?"

"Sylvia, please."

I moved my hand underneath him, kneading his balls gently in my hand. This seemed to be the kicker.

" _Fuck_ ," he gasped.

"Beg for it, Ozzie. Beg to be inside of me."

He glared up at me—ah, that defiance. I squeezed his cock in my hand, and he let out a needy whimper.

" _Stop_ trying to resist," I demanded. "You want something from me, I need to hear it from you first."

Oswald seemed to struggle with the terms. Then I began to stand.

"Please, pigeon," He pleaded, his voice was strained in desire. "Please, I beg of you!"

I grinned down at him: "Was that so hard?"

I lined him beneath my pussy and slowly sank down. His moan caught in his throat as I started finding a pace; his hips lifted to mine eagerly. Oswald reached up to touch me; I grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head; his hands balled into fists.

"Give into it. Let…go."

I kissed him, hard enough that it hurt. He groaned into my mouth, but I felt his body slacken, the tension slowly leaving.

"That's it, baby. That's it. Give in just like that."

The pace quickened, I bounced harder, feeling his cock shove deep inside of me. The headboard hit the wall each time I sank down on him. His once stifled moans became loud, and unrestrained. I kept his wrists pinned above him, but I smiled when his hands relaxed.

"I'm close," Oswald keened. "Please, Pigeon, don't stop…. _fuck_ …."

I rode him hard, my own release quickly approaching. I had no intentions of stopping, and the sounds he made only spurred me on. When his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and his back arched, that was all I needed to see before my orgasm struck home. My walls tightening around him. His body nearly convulsed as I felt his cock twitch and release himself inside of me. I sighed deeply; he was panting, but I had never seen him look more content.

I slowly raised my hips and he slid out of me.

"I'll get dinner started," I said softly.

I kissed his cheek; he turned his head, so it landed on his lips and he passionately reciprocated.

"Thank you," Oswald uttered hazily.

"Don't mention it," I said lovingly. "For what it's worth, vulnerability looks good on you—but only when I cause it." I winked at him, and he looked after me for a few seconds before he started getting dressed again.

After all, he had to meet a deadline.

**Chapter 11: I Meet Lee Thompkins**

I stood inside the club, newly renamed 'Oswald's'. Instead of the red, pinkish lights that hung around the club, it was replaced with blue décor. Replacing Mooney's symbol of a fish outside was the cerulean-colored, neon sign of an umbrella. In the past twenty-four hours, with Oswald's help, Falcone had completely mitigated any sign that the woman had even run this place. It had been a few days since its reopening—the entertainment sounding on the stage were violinists, and a flutist.

Not many people occupied the tables; it was almost dead.

I touched the counter tops at the bar, noting the gleaming ebony. Standing to my right was Tomas, my constant bodyguard. As promised, Oswald had given me what I wanted: a job. Like my last job in the restaurant, I knew every foot soldier and their work schedules. The bartenders wore red and gold jackets, black slacks—the other staff wore the similar garb, refilling the patrons' drinks and that sort of thing.

Just as Tomas and I were speaking in low tones, Tomas suddenly stiffened. I looked over my shoulder to see Maroni and two of his minions approaching. Discreetly, Tomas reached into his jacket as Maroni stood within a few feet of my personal bubble. I made a point, taking a few steps back.

"Calm down," Maroni said happily, acknowledging Tomas with a polite smile, and myself, a harder one. "I'm only here on business."

I nodded for my guard to do as the Don advised; Tomas took his hand off the weapon hidden within his coat, but I kept a close eye on my antagonist.

"You look well," Maroni commented, noting my put-together appearance. "I'm pleased to see my men didn't hurt you too badly."

I took a long, deep breath before saying politely, "I'm sorry about what happened to Mack, Don Maroni."

"Are you really?"

"No," I admitted sarcastically. "It's a shame when a man's dick falls off and his testicles spontaneously combust. I hope the coroner figures out how that happened so the docs can find a cure for that sort of thing."

Maroni smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. The men behind him grumbled in dismay.

"Let's not stand on ceremony, huh?" He said coldly. "I _know_ what you did to Mack."

"Hmm. So, you know. Why, then, are you here?"

"I spoke with your boyfriend—oh sorry…. _Fiancé_. I told him what I am about to tell you."

"Which is?"

"You and I are okay. I talked with Falcone. I just came here to tell you that whenever Falcone is out of the picture, you will be too. And I owe you for what you did to my friend."

"Your ' _friend_ ' sexually assaulted me and then tried to rape me. Any of your people try anything like that again, I'll sodomize them with a crowbar."

Maroni grinned widely saying, "I miss that fire of yours, babes. I always liked that about you. I'll be seeing you later." He winked and then left.

I had never wanted to hurt him so badly in my entire life. My guard said nothing, even though I was certain that he wanted to say plenty. A professional like him was chivalrous and he detested anyone that dared to threaten me.

I considered the possibility that it was because he was paid to be that way. But I was starting to see that Tomas seemed to generally respect me. After all, I treated him kindly, and I had given him a place to sleep within my own home.

I gathered the staff all in the middle, and spoke with a few of them individually, in regards to customs such as trash pick-up, the working hours of the club itself, and if any of them had child care arranged during their absence. When a few noted that they hadn't arranged any plans regarding their kids, I gave them recommendations of daycare. I took down their names, as well as their addresses and reliable callback information.

I stood on a chair as I was shorter than the rest of the staff and looked at them all.

"All right people, eyes on me."

They all turned in my direction.

"I have one more question before we get this day going," I said smoothly. "Is anyone here a cop?"

I received blank stares.

"Just kidding," I jested, smirking.

They all tittered and I hopped down off the chair. Tomas helped me down.

"What was the point of that question?" Tomas asked curiously.

"What, the cop thing?"

He nodded, looking around at the staff, all of whom were going back to their places as bartenders, greeters, and the like.

"I like to know who these people are," I divulged. "That reminds me. Tomas," (He looked at me expectantly) "Check and make sure these addresses are correct."

I handed him the sheet of paper on which the staff had written their information. He scanned it and looked at me: "What exactly do you want me to look into?"

"Just make sure it checks out. If any of these people are still loyal to Fish Mooney, I have to make sure they know who is really in charge."

"You think they'd try to go against the boss?"

"No, but it doesn't hurt to suspect that. I often times pretend it's a game."

"A game of what?"

"Chess."

"I don't follow," Tomas muttered.

I patted his shoulder and pulled him to the side. He had to lower and tilt his head to me so as to hear me since he and I didn't stand ear-to-ear.

"In chess, the pawns go first, the king stays idle for the most part. But the queen can jump ten spaces in any direction." I told him smoothly. "And she does whatever she must to protect the king."

Tomas smiled saying, "So all of this" (He referred to the contact information) "is so you can protect Mr. Cobblepot?"

"Bingo."

"He's trying to protect _you_."

"He needs me to protect him from himself," I offered sweetly. "I like to be his eyes and ears when I can. He's been successful so far—getting this club—and I want him to enjoy the victory without having to worry about unsuspecting characters…. like the people working for him, for example."

"And if I find proof that any of these people are actively working against Penguin—what do you want me to do?"

"You do nothing. If they're working against Oswald, they are enemies of Falcone. Falcone put Oswald in charge. Tell them that. If they still don't get with the program, well, that's why I have their addresses and that's what guns are for, right? Call me first before you do anything so I can start the hiring process. With the club up and running, we really can't afford to be short-manned."

"Roger that, Ma'am."

He made a small bow before he went about his merry way. Gabe came up from behind, startling me in the process as he said, "Place is looking good, isn't it, Miss G?"

"Goddamn it, Gabe...you can't be sneaking up behind me like that," I exhaled.

"Sorry. Do you want one?" He asked, holding out a box.

"One of what?"

"An invitation. I'm handing them out to everyone on the list."

"Am I on the list?"

"Well, no…."

"Then why are you giving me one?" I snickered.

Gabe shrugged, "I figured you of all people might like one."

"I _work_ here, Gabe."

"I know, but it'd be like a memento. And there'll be plenty of them left."

I glanced inside the box and saw the sleek design of the invitations. Ebony background. Arctic blue calligraphy spelled out 'Oswald's'. I took one, opening it up. The invitation itself began with 'You have been cordially invited' and I chuckled, looking at Gabe.

"These are nice, Gabriel," I praised. "I bet Oswald liked these."

"Yeah, he did."

I looked around and noticed his absence—Maroni had certainly pushed a whirlwind of distractions to me that I hadn't even noticed Oswald's absence.

Suddenly worried, I asked, "Where is he?"

"Don't worry; he's been out and about. He went to give someone an invitation personally, couple days ago."

"To whom?"

"Your brother."

I looked at Gabe, thinking he was joking. It wasn't often that Gabe joked, but when he did, it always took me off guard. When he appeared solemn, I figured he wasn't.

"Well, he may be disappointed," I sighed, placing the invitation back in its box.

"You don't think Gordon would come?" Gabe asked. "Penguin's done a lot for him—like the thing with Flass and all."

"Yeah, well, you don't know my brother," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

"He doesn’t like playing dirty, huh? Seemed pretty happy when I gave him the goods on Flass. I think he'd come to the club after that."

"No," I said patiently. "To him, Oswald is no better than a dirty cop. He wants nothing to do with this part of my life unless it benefits his case specifically."

"No offense, Miss G…. You're gonna put a strain on the thing with your brother, do **this** type of thing, so you can marry **this** guy?" Gabe said, holding up the invitation with my fiancé's name on it.

"Honestly, Gabe, it's not a hard choice."

With a tinge of jealousy, Gabe noted, "Penguin's lucky."

"I suppose so." I commented. Then to change the topic, "Who else do you have to deliver to?"

"Not a lot of people left."

"Need any help?"

"Nah., I got it, Miss G."

"Suit yourself," I sighed. "I'm going to visit my brother, see if I can't tease him about his new girlfriend. When you see Oswald, will you let him know where I have gone?"

"Sure thing."

"Thanks!" I called back as I left the club.

As I entered the GCPD, I was met with an array of many colors and suddenly I had several questions.

Why were there acrobats in tight-fitted costumes talking to the police officers? Why were clowns seated around the station and asked whether or not they wanted anything to drink? Why in the world were there women dressed in skivvy outfits with giant eagle feathers talking quietly in the corner. Was that a clown and an acrobat inside a holding cell?

_Oh my god,_ I thought. _There is a **ringmaster** standing in the middle of the floor._

I glanced around quickly, looking for lions. I didn't see any, but it didn't make me feel any better off.

I slowly made my way on the outer ring of the trivial company, my eyes growing wider and wider as I took in the entire situation…. whatever situation that _was_. I strode into the hallway, not being stopped by anyone as everyone in the GCPD seemed to recognize me quite easily. I'd visited enough times; I didn't even need an introduction.

I stopped in front of the door that read 'Forensics’ and tapped the translucent window twice.

"Enter!"

I opened the door, seeing Edward Nygma. He was peering into a microscope, observing some sample of an amoeba. When I didn't speak, he glanced up to see who it was, and he smiled when he saw that it was me.

"Miss Gordon!" Nygma greeted happily. "How are you?"

"Peachy, as always. Um, what's going on out there?" I asked, pointing out to the middle ground. "Is the circus in town?"

"Yes. And what is _also_ abundant in Gotham?"

"Is this a riddle?"

"Not exactly, but I'll give you two clues," said Nygma, withdrawing from the microscope and turning in his chair to face me. "There is a _lot_ of it to go around, and we hear it every day."

"Murder?" I guessed.

Nygma's face fell just a bit and he nervously chuckled, "Well, _I_ was going to say humor…. like jokes…. but I suppose 'murder' fits that category as well. You're right. It's not a riddle."

"I'm glad to hear that. You've told me better ones in the past."

"Would you like to hear one?"

"Fire away; I'm all ears," I said, gesturing to him.

"What is black and white, and red all over?" Nygma asked smoothly. "It's an easy one."

I stared at him saying, "Dead interracial couple?"

Nygma blinked, cleared his throat and said, "Well….no…. it's a newspaper, but again, I suppose that's a fair answer."

"Sorry. My humor has gotten darker since we last spoke." I apologized. "How's the thing with Kristen?"

"'Thing?'"

"Did you ask her to dinner yet?"

Nygma shied away, and turned back to peer into his microscope, grumbling, "I haven't."

"Is she still with Flass?"

"No. That gorilla's still waiting to see prison—hopefully soon."

"So, she has another boyfriend?" I asked unhappily.

"No. I've just been preoccupied—I was suspended earlier, you know."

I took a seat on a stool beside him.

"First I'm hearing of it," I noted.

"Doesn't matter now," Nygma explained, smiling in spite of himself. "The M.E. was fired. He was collecting and hiding human parts in his locker."

I stared at him in disbelief saying, "Hiding body parts, huh?"

"Yes, indeed," Nygma said gleefully. "And he was fired."

"Who took his place?"

"A doctor who'd been working at Arkham. She and Detective Gordon are together. She smells nice."

He peered back into his microscope, twisting the dial to and fro as though to get a clearer resolution of the specimen swimming on the transparent tab.

"Wait," I said, holding my hand out. "Thompkins? Dr. Thompkins is the new Medical Examiner?"

"Yes, have you met her yet?" Nygma asked without looking at me. "That's what I needed. There you are you little stinker."

"Pardon?"

Nygma said apologetically, "Sorry, not you—the thing…" He pointed to the microscope. "I have to get this thing calibrated again. It takes _forever_ to focus in."

"You're a simple man, aren't you, Edward?"

"Very," He agreed, smiling sweetly at me.

"Have you met this Thompkins?"

"I have. She's nice." Nygma said pointedly. "She lets me use the lab, nowhere near as ignorant as the other one." He leaned to the side adding, "No need to worry, Miss Gordon."

"Worried? Why would I be worried?"

"You're thinking of meeting her, right?" Nygma assumed logically. "You're the sibling, the sister, the opposite gender. If I am not mistaken, you want to meet the doctor yourself and ensure that she is worthy of dating your sibling counterpart."

I stared at him.

He smirked saying, "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Well, you're not wrong," I sighed, getting off the stool. "Always a pleasure talking to you, Edward. Do you think the circus has dispersed?"

"I wouldn't doubt it," Nygma said innocently. "Regarding the Thompkins-and-your-Brother issue, I can offer a suggestion."

I started towards the door. Hearing him, I turned on my heel: "And what is your suggestion?"

"Give her a chance," Nygma offered. "She seems like a nice woman. She might be good for your brother."

"Thank you. I'll take it under advisement." I responded politely. "In return, I'll offer this piece of advice regarding your Kristen dilemma: Ask her to dinner. She may just be waiting for _you_ to do it."

Nygma turned his attention to his microscope and I heard him mutter, " _Darn it_."

I snickered and walked down the hall to see that most of the circus people had walked out of the GCPD. Whether they were going home or spending the night in Gotham, I doubted any of them were going to be liable to leave. I looked up and saw Jim standing on the balcony; sitting against his desk was a dark-haired woman, wearing a green dress.

_Well, better time than any._

I climbed the stairs and passed Harvey on the way. He stopped me, taking my arm gingerly.

"Hey, Sylvia," said Harvey, smiling. "How you been?"

"Peachy—as usual," I answered coolly. "You?"

"Not bad, not bad. You going up there to interrogate the doctor?"

"Maybe," I joked.

"Can I watch?"

"You're terrible, Harvey," I chastised. I glanced downwind to see the acrobat and clown arguing it out in the cell. "What's going on down there?"

"Clown and acrobat are suspects," said Harvey seriously. "Possible murder—I know, it's been one hell of a night."

"Was it a local?"

"No, that's the _fun_ part. A circus freak murdered another circus freak," said Harvey humorously.

"Only in Gotham is that funny. You'd think that would scare some people when people are murdering their own. Any leads—other than those two?"

"If I had any, I couldn't tell you."

"If you had any, you _would._ " I said knowingly, poking him in the chest.

Harvey smiled guiltily: "You know me too well. Now see, _that_ is scary. I'll see you. Maybe I'll buy you a drink later. I can do that, right? I hear you're getting serious—congratulations on the engagement, I guess."

"Thank you for the congrats, even though I know you don't mean it."

"No, I'm serious," He insisted. "If that little man makes you happy, who am I to stand in the way of love?"

He laughed when I gave him a stern look and then he continued on his way. I continued to climb the stairs and I stood at the pinnacle, watching Jim and this new Medical Examiner talk in hushed tones. Jim saw me over her shoulder; when his eyes shifted, the woman turned suddenly, seeing me.

She beamed: "Who is this?"

"Lee," Jim introduced, business-like. "This is my sister, Sylvia Gordon. Sylvia, this is Lee."

Lee held out her hand and I shook it firmly.

"I didn't know you had a sister," Lee said mischievously, grinning sideways at Jim.

"Shocker," I responded sarcastically, looking at him. "It's like the skeletons just fall right out of your closet, don't they, Jimmy?"

Jim let out a nervous laugh then he glared at me as Lee approached and gave me a quick once-over.

"I can see the resemblance. You two have the same eyes."

"Well, mine are more open," Jim interjected.

"Now whether they actually see what's right in front of them something is entirely different," I told Lee sardonically.

Lee glanced between Jim and me. She seemed smart enough to know there was tension between us, especially when there never used to be. The woman then turned to me completely and smiled politely.

"Is this the moment when you and I have a heart-to-heart conversation about how I should treat him?" Lee asked sincerely. "I just want you to know that I like him a lot and I wouldn't do anything to hurt him…."

"Actually," I interrupted her civilly, "I just wanted to meet the new Medical Examiner. Edward said you replaced the other one."

"Yes. It's my first week here."

"Well, welcome to Gotham. I hope you like the work. It'll keep you busy."

"Of course, by _no_ fault of your own," Jim grumbled.

"What was that?" I called him out.

"I said 'you should probably go home,'" Jim emphasized with a weird smile. "It's getting late, after all."

I rolled my eyes and took Lee's hands in mine.

"It's really nice to meet you, Dr. Thompkins," I said sincerely. "Let me know if you'd like to grab lunch or something. My fiancé and I have been to a few restaurants that I would highly recommend. One of them is completely French-themed."

"Oh, that's a good idea! Isn't it, Jim?" Lee said happily, smiling at my brother.

"Grand," Jim said light-heartedly, forcing a small smile.

"You said you're engaged?" Lee asked, her eyes sparkled with the knowledge. "When's the wedding?"

"Don't know yet," I admitted. "We're waiting for when everything is perfect."

"Let us know when you set a date! I _love_ weddings."

Behind her, Jim was mimicking the both of us and making odd faces.

"Will do. But if you would excuse me, I have a few potential people to interview, and a few errands to run. It's great meeting you."

"And you as well!"

"Bye Jim!" I called over my shoulder.

"See you later!"

I strolled down the stairs and I heard Lee poking fun at him saying, "Why didn't you _tell_ me you had a sister! She's such a peach!"

"She used to be," Jim said just loud enough that I could hear.

I glanced upwards at the balcony to see him watching me. I waved at him before I left the GCPD.

**Chapter 12: Tomato Soup**

Chapter Twelve: Tomato Soup

A/N: Sylvia isn’t above torture when it comes to protecting Oswald’s interests.

I entered my apartment around nine o'clock at night, turned on the lights, and when I strode into the kitchen I was met with an interesting sight. Tied to two of my kitchen chairs was a man and a woman, all alone and unfamiliar. Their mouths were covered with duct tape.

I stood in front of them. The word 'curiosity' didn't begin to cover the feeling.

The woman wore a black, long-sleeved shirt and a slate-gray leather, knee-length skirt with black fish-net stockings. Her open-toed, ruby high heels were placed neatly beside her; her ankles were separately duct-taped to the legs of the chair. She was blonde, green-eyed, and her hair was a matted mess. As I approached her, the woman's eyes grew large as saucers and she struggled against her bonds; her wrists were tied behind the back of the chair.

Her male counterpart looked to be in the same boat—wrist and ankle restraints were the same, and like her shoes, his had been neatly placed to the side. Shiny shoes, even. He matched the lady in color scheme: gray and black apparel. The man had a set of vengeful, dark blue eyes; he snarled at me when I first came inside the door.

"What in god's name is going on here?" I asked the two of them, not really expecting an answer.

But they certainly made the effort of trying to explain themselves.

"Mmffmh!"

"Mmmm! Mhhfffmm!"

I let out a chuckle: "Well, I'm glad we finally got that cleared up."

Soft padded footsteps came from the hallway; a pair of hands extended towards me. I saw that it was Tomas; he strode into the kitchen with jeans and a white T-shirt; he was barefoot.

I said sternly, "Do you mind telling me why these people are in my apartment?"

Tomas nodded, gesturing me to come further into the kitchen. I leaned against the counter as he stood in between the two occupants, placing a sturdy hand on a shoulder each.

"You asked me to find out if there was anyone actively trying to go against the new owner," Tomas recalled calmly. "I give you these two as a result."

I looked at the two in a new light.

"Are they part of the staff?" I asked, crossing my arms.

"Yes, Ma'am. This is Burke," said Tomas, gesticulating to the male. "His name is Burke Drifas. He was recently hired as one of the waiting staff. He—Hold on, let me get out my notes…I have a terrible memory when it comes to numbers." (He walked ten paces into the living room, pushed his shot gun aside so he could pick up a notepad that had been lying on the coffee table then hustled back.) "Burke lives at 10th on West Avenue, just outside of Gotham. He has three children, an ex-wife to which he referred as a 'fugly whore'."

Tomas shook his head with a laugh, clapping the man on the back, saying, "That's not nice, man. You need to respect your exes—they gave you the time of day, didn't they?"

"Three children and an ex—go on," I noted.

"When I talked to him, he said that he doesn't think Penguin is in charge. He quoted, 'The little creep is Falcone's lap dog, and nothing more'." Tomas smirked, adding, "He's a bit of a creep himself, ain't he, boss?"

Burke tried his best to look around, to see my expression, but as I was behind him, he couldn't make heads or tails about my disposition. Patiently, I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a gallon of orange juice and asked if Tomas wanted anything.

"Do you know how to make a Fuzzy Navel?" Tomas asked conversationally.

"Coming right up."

I took out the ingredients to make his drink and then I made one for myself. I placed his on the kitchen table.

"Thanks, boss," said Tomas, smiling widely. "Now…. when I told Mr. Burke here that by contesting Penguin, he would be going against Falcone, he said 'I don't give a shit'." He said to the man in question, holding his notepad out for the latter to see: "Those are your words, man. Not mine. I can't make this shit up."

Burke said some nasty muffled things to him.

"Burke," Tomas continued, "is a liability. He's been working as a waiter, but I say that once everything started running and things are nice and calm again, he'd try to do something. Give Maroni some secrets, maybe?"

At the suggestion, Burke shook his head vigorously.

I strode into the living room and pulled off my leather jacket, hanging it on the coat rack. Tomas flipped a few pages, assuming I was still listening (and I was) and continued telling me more about Burke. The man alone was a common denominator who despised Penguin just to despise him, because he wasn't Fish Mooney. I slipped off my heels in the living room.

"He's _also_ told me," Tomas continued dully, "that if given the chance, he would—and I quote— 'Take Penguin out so _I_ could take over, anyone is better than the freak'. Dude…."—Tomas bent over and held Burke's shoulder like he was a pal— "You can't talk about Penguin that way; that's her _boyfriend_ , man. I mean, technically, he's her boss, but they're a thing, guy. So that's like a big double whammy for you, ain't it?"

Burke slowly looked at me, eyes wide in fear.

"I'm going to take a shower," I told Tomas, gesturing to the bathroom. "I'll be out in a jiffy. Do you mind heating up some of the leftovers?"

"Sure—the steak casserole or the tomato soup?"

"Soup, please."

"No problem, Boss."

I stepped into the shower and was only in for a few minutes, just enough to wash the dirt and grime of the day. I towel dried my hair and pulled it into a ponytail, slipped on a silk robe and tied it off. When I came out of the bathroom, I saw Tomas sitting on the table in front of the two contenders, reading over his notes.

In a pot, the left-over tomato soup from a couple nights ago was heating up. Seeing me, he handed me my drink and I thanked him once more. I gently rested my hand on Burke's shoulder; he eyed me suspiciously.

"It's so nice to meet you, Mr. Drifas." I greeted sweetly. "Continue, Tomas."

"Well, that's all there was about him," said Tomas apologetically. "He refused to talk after I hit him over the head."

"Typical. What about the girl?"

The woman's eyes widened once more when the attention was directed at her.

"Yes, Ma'am," Tomas said with a wide grin. "This is Tiffany Rudderdale. She doesn't work for you."

"Why is she here then?"

"Because she's going to be the _new_ Mrs. Drifas."

"That doesn't mean she's a rival."

"She has a bad taste in men, then."

"A bad taste in men does not a rival make."

"So fine," said Tomas lazily. "She didn't say she agreed with him, but she didn't _deny_ it either. With all due respect, ma'am, that's just as bad. In my professional opinion."

I traced the rim of my drinking glass with my finger: "Hmm. You have a point, Tom."

"HmmmffmM!" Tiffany squeaked.

I tilted my head to the side at her then glanced at my guard: "Did you understand that?"

"Not a damn word," Tomas snickered.

Her mascara started rolling down her cheeks as she said again more desperately, "Hmmffffffmm hrmmmfmmm!"

I sat on the table beside Tomas and gestured for him to do what needed to be done. Tomas ripped the tape off her mouth and knelt in front of her; she was panting immediately, jaw trembling.

"I don't know what you want," Tiffany squeaked. "But if it's money—"

"I'm not interested in your money," I said calmly. "And you couldn't afford the price even if I was."

"Miss Gordon, I assure you—"

Tomas slapped the tape right back on her mouth, craning his head at me.

"Do we really have to hear them talk?" He complained, dreading the outcome. "I mean, do you _really_ care to hear it?"

"I've got all night," I consented. "We might as well."

"Fuck me…. okay, you bitch," Tomas grumbled, glaring at Tiffany. "You better make these words count. She's gonna let you talk, okay? But you're not going to scream or cry or moan. Got it?"

Tiffany nodded furiously. I was impressed with Tomas so far. He seemed so calm and professionally stricken by violence that I would have never guessed he would be up for this kind of fun. I downed my drink as Tomas ripped the tape off her mouth again.

"I don't know what you want…Please, tell me what you want," Tiffany whispered, glancing at her fiancé then to me again. "What did we do wrong?"

"You must be deaf!" Tomas snapped. "I _just_ sat here and listed all the things that you've done wrong!"

"Him!" Tiffany cried, glaring at Burke. " _He_ said those things, not **me**!"

"Do you agree with him?" I questioned gently. "Do you think he's right?"

"I…." Tiffany looked at her husband who was sending all the signals of 'agree with me, please!' but she bit her lower lip. "I…. I don't…."

"Tomas."

My guard straightened from his squatted position and turned to me expectantly.

"Would you mind taking Ms. Rudderdale to my room? Untie her, give her one of my robes from the closet, and a bottled water," I instructed. "When you've untied her, please lock the door and rejoin Mr. Drifas and me back in the kitchen."

"Why?" Tomas asked incredulously. "She's just as guilty—"

"No, she's not."

Tiffany looked at me as though I had grown three heads: shocked, confused, and a little terrified.

Tomas stood and leaned into me, whispering in my ear: "Why are you doing this?"

"She's been strong-armed into this mess," I hissed curtly. "She _wants_ to tell the truth but she's afraid of **him**." I gestured to the man.

"How can you tell?"

"I know a battered woman when I see one," I said sympathetically. "Personal experience."

Tomas' expression changed from its stern placement and softened when he heard the last part. He looked at me, confused, but then understood. He nodded dutifully, grabbed both sides of the kitchen chair and proceeded to drag Tiffany out of the kitchen; the woman, although terrified, didn't scream so that was a good sign. When she was out of range and I heard the door close, I turned to look at Burke.

"And then there were two," I sighed.

"Hmph."

"My sentiments exactly," I mused, smirking at him. "If I let you talk, Mr. Drifas, you have to promise not to scream. I have yet to make any rude remarks to you so I would hope that you would show me the same courtesy. Does that sound fair?"

He glared at me.

"Nod your head if that's fair."

He nodded once.

"Good."

I leaned forward and slowly took the tape off his face. He was glaring daggers and he appeared to be biting off his tongue in order for him _not_ to say something terrible. I leaned my backside against the table, crossing my arms over my chest. I caught the way he was looking me over; his attention lingered especially over the hem of my robe which cut off just above my knees.

"You're wondering why you're here. Would that be correct?"

"Sure," He grumbled. "What I am _really_ wondering—"

"Remember. We're being nice."

"This is 'nice'?"

"Well, you're not being tortured," I humorously pointed out. "At best, you've been hit across the head."

"Thanks for that."

"Tomas likes Penguin. _You_ insulted his boss. _He_ hit you on the head. I'd call it even."

"You weren't there."

"True, but I doubt I need to know your side of the story to determine that. What about your girl?"

Burke said sardonically, "What about her?"

"Does she want Penguin dead too?"

"Yeah—"

"Does she? She didn't say she did."

"Well, then, she's a fucking liar."

"She didn't say she wanted him alive either."

"What the fuck does it matter, lady! She agrees with me; she **wants** him dead too! She ain't telling you anything because she's just scared!"

"Well, we can both agree to that—I'm not blind!" I said heatedly as I advanced towards him. "But I don't think she's scared of _me_ , Mr. Drifas. I think she's afraid of _you_."

He frowned at me as if I hurt his feelings.

"You raise your voice to me," I reprimanded, "Then I will raise my voice to you. You want to act tough? I can handle tough. You're not making it easy on yourself, buddy. You want to be talked to like a grown adult then you might want to start showing some **fucking** respect!"

He continued to frown. Then he asked icily, "Why the hell am I here?"

"So, you _do_ want to know that. Well," I held up my hands, "that's easy enough. You're here, Mr. Drifas, because I asked my guard—you met Tomas already—to do a few things for me. I asked him to look into all the hired staff and to notify me of anyone who is still loyal to Fish Mooney."

"So, I'm here because I liked the woman. You plan on attacking anyone who likes her, who is loyal to her?"

I shrugged carelessly, "I don't give a shit who _they_ are loyal to, Burke. That's not why _you_ are here. You told Tomas that you would take Penguin out if you had the chance—"

"—Everyone who is anyone would do anything like that," Burke argued. "Maroni says stuff like that but you don't have _him_ tied up, do you?"

"Maroni is a whole different issue. The fact of the matter is that you, Mr. Drifas, actually **work** for Penguin. That puts you in a situation where you can get close to him and then when you find whatever you're looking for, you can give the information to the highest bidder."

"You would know. You're working for him. You're dating the snitch. He put you up to this, I bet."

"True on all counts except the last," I admitted. "He doesn't know you're here."

"He fucking snitched on Fish Mooney. You used to _work_ for her! I thought you'd have some loyalty left towards her.""

"Also, true," I voiced coolly. "I did used to work for her. I guess I should have been a little more loyal, but it's a fickle thing, sometimes. You feel disrespected by that, obviously. So, is that why you took the job? You knew you'd end up working for Penguin. Wanna tell me what the plan was?"

"Go to hell, you crazy broad."

"There isn't any need to insult me. Remember what I said? We were having a polite discussion. 'Polite' is the operative word, here."

Burke glared at me. Padded footsteps came down the hallway.

Without taking my eyes off Burke, I addressed Tomas, "How is she?"

"She's fine. Scared is all. But fine."

"Did you lock the door?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"What about the windows?"

"Yes, Ma'am. But there's probably no need for that," said Tomas, shrugging as he sat in one of the empty dining chairs. "I doubt she'll escape."

Burke and I glanced at one another suspiciously.

"Why is that?" I asked.

"She didn't resist when I untied her." Tomas reported. "And she seems appreciative."

"I wonder why _that_ is." I commented pointedly, looking back at the fiancé.

"Don't give me that crap," Burke sneered. "She's just biding her time so she can get away from _you_. She'll play innocent. When you're complacent, she'll escape. She'll get out, and she'll call the police. You'll be locked away in prison…."

" _Jeez_ ," Tomas scowled. "You talk too much."

"I know, right?" I agreed.

Burke stopped talking for a moment, his mouth contorting into odd shapes before he seemed to pop his fuse.

"You know what," He seethed. "You're _right._ I don't like Penguin. He's a freak. He's a nobody. He's running the whole place down, ruining **everything**!"

Tomas glanced at me nervously. I stood next to the stove where the tomato soup was boiling.

"I **wanted** to kill him," Burke continued hatefully. "I want him _dead!_ You think I care if you hurt the whore in the other room? I'm not scared of you at all! I'm not scared! You think you can fucking scare me! A bitch like you! HA! YOU HAVEN'T SEEN WHAT SCARED LOOKS LIKE!"

He was screaming his head off as I looked at Tomas and said gingerly, "Do you care to fetch a few towels for me from the bathroom?"

"Sure," Tomas said warily. He left to do as I asked.

Burke shot fire from his eyes: "You are a worthless bitch! You're a worthless, steaming pile of fucking shit! And you know what! You know what? I would say the same shit to Penguin—I'm not lying down for someone so fucking—"

Tomas was on his way back when he punched Burke square in the jaw.

"Tomas!" I chided.

"What!" Tomas snapped. "He's insulting you!"

" **Let him**. When you've finished putting the towels down, would you kindly tape his mouth shut. But _do not_ hit him."

"With pleasure!" Tomas exclaimed with zeal.

He took a long piece and purposely punched the tape onto his face. Burke groaned in pain as his nose began to bleed.

I scowled.

" _What_?" Tomas said innocently. "I had to make sure it stayed on!"

Tomas and I both glanced at the front door when it opened. Oswald and Gabe entered the apartment, both of them were in the middle of the discussion before they both turned to see Tomas and me standing in the kitchen with a fuming Burke tied in the chair. Gabe shut the door quickly, locking it.

"Sylvia," Oswald began slowly. "What is going on?"

Gabe pointed at Burke, "Hey! He's one of our waiters!"

"Sylvia?" Oswald repeated.

I twisted the dial on the stove to the highest level and stirred the soup with a wooden spoon.

"Do you want any leftovers?" I asked.

"No thanks," Gabe politely declined. "I had pizza for dinner."

Oswald rounded the table, observing the state Burke was in, and the towels that circled the chair.

"This is Burke Drifas," I introduced, tapping the man's shoulder. "As Gabe pointed out, he is, indeed, one of the waiters at your club."

"Why is he here? And why is he tied to a chair?" Oswald questioned, noticing the ropes binding the man's hands and the tape around his ankles.

"That's my doing," Tomas chimed in.

"That's a nice tape job," Gabe complimented.

"Thanks!" Tomas said, grinning.

Oswald interrupted their exchange of nice words, saying, "Again— _Why_ is this man tied to a chair in the middle of the kitchen!"

Tomas said pointedly, "Well, we couldn't interrogate the guy at his house—that would be weird."

Gabe chimed in, "Why does he look like he wants to kill you, Miss G?"

Tomas answered swiftly, "He's just upset because his entire plan is going to hell. Guess the 'freak' knows now, huh, Drifas!"

"Tomas!" I scolded.

"Ma'am, _Burke_ said it—not me," said Tomas, glancing arbitrarily at Burke, Gabe, Oswald, then at me. "I figure if you're going to tell him everything, let's tell him _everything_ the guy told us."

"I think this guy might piss himself before that happens," Gabe muttered, watching Burke's eyes dart to everyone in the kitchen.

"WILL SOMEONE PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT THE _HELL_ IS GOING ON!" Oswald shouted.

Tomas and Gabe jumped, looking at me expectantly.

"I can," I said gently.

"Then, _by all means_!" Oswald said irritably, gesturing to me.

I explained calmly: "I told Tomas to look into the background of all the people who are gainfully employed by you, and to give me the names of all those who were actively seeking retribution for Mooney's banishment. Tomas found Mr. Drifas as well as his wife-to-be, Tiffany Rubberdale, and brought them to me."

"Where is—" Gabe began.

"Ms. Rubberdale is sitting in our bedroom—she has neither confirmed nor denied whether Mr. Drifas' intentions were legitimate."

Tomas added, "She also seemed a little hesitant to talk in front of this guy."

"Because of that," I said, nodding my head to Tomas, "I allowed her to sit in a different room. She's clearly afraid of Mr. Drifas." (I glared at the latter.) "So far he has tried to implicate her in his death threats. And, Oswald, before you came in, he confessed to having wanted you dead. He is tied to this chair in the kitchen because that was how Tomas presented him to me. Now that I have learned that he was hell-bent on killing you, I have every intention of torturing him."

Burke glared at Oswald who stoically observed him. When I had finished, Oswald's temper seemed extinguished.

"My, you have been busy," Oswald exhaled with surprise.

Burke glanced between us.

"What do you want me to do to him?" Tomas asked me.

"Nothing yet," I answered.

I stripped the tape off Burke's mouth, and he cried out in pain.

"Anything else of importance you'd like to add?"

"Yeah," Burke seethed. "Fuck you—and fuck Penguin!"

"Hmm." I drawled. "I was hoping you'd say that."

I grabbed the boiling pot of tomato soup and dumped it over Burke's head. He screamed bloody murder as the broth seared and cooked his flesh. The skin of his face and hands started bubbling, he was crying out for mercy. The tomato soup drizzled from his body, to the chair and onto the towels.

Oswald, Gabe, and Tomas appeared shocked.

I pulled the kitchen towel off the rack, rolled into a ball and shoved it into Burke's mouth to muffle the screams of agony.

"His screaming was giving me a fucking headache," I noted when Tomas and Gabe looked at me quizzically.

"So _that's_ why you made me put on the soup," Tomas chuckled darkly. "And lay out the towels. You had this planned from the beginning!"

"He threatened to kill the love of my life. It seemed to be the only logical thing to do," I uttered.

"What about the wife?" Gabe asked, peering down the hallway. "What do you want us to do with her?"

"Nothing. I'll deal with her."

Burke was shivering and shaking from the heat. I left him there in the chair and started towards the bedroom. I heard Oswald tell Gabe, "Do you mind taking care of this?"

Gabe silently agreed to do whatever Oswald was referring to. I opened the bedroom door, and I saw Tiffany sitting up, wearing my robe. She looked at me fearfully.

"Your fiancé is going to die tonight," I told her passively. "If not from a bullet, he'll die from third degree burns. Now that he is out of the picture, out of the way, and away from you, I am only going to ask this one time. Please do not make me ask it again."

She nodded shakily.

"Were you aware of Burke's intentions? Be honest."

She fearfully nodded.

"Do you agree with him?"

Tiffany stammered, "N-no. He made me go along with it. He wanted me to agree but…."

"Are you telling me this so that I may spare your life?"

"No, ma'am. Not at all."

I sat on the bed beside her, staring into her eyes: "How can I be certain of that?"

Tiffany pulled the sleeves up her arms where underneath were bruises.

She said bitterly, "He did this to me…. a couple of days ago. And he…. he and I…at night—he would insist, but I wouldn't want to. But he would anyway."

"He raped you?"

She started crying. That was all I needed.

"You're free to go," I told her.

She whispered her thanks. Tiffany opened the bedroom door, but she turned around with her hand still on the doorknob: "Miss, I have something else to ask of you."

"What is it?"

"He was the only one in the family—his family—drawing income. I don't have a job. I'll need one."

I said humorously, " _You_ want to come work for Penguin?"

"If it means working for you, yeah," Tiffany said, nodding.

"I'll see what I can do. Come by the club tomorrow, and Ms. Rubberdale…" She met my eyes. "Don't go falling for his type ever again."

She stepped over the threshold.

"Tiffany's leaving!" I called out through the apartment. "Let her pass!"

I heard the front door open and then close. I rubbed my face with my hands, feeling more than spent. Oswald appeared in the middle of the doorframe, standing in the doorway, leaned against it with his arms crossed.

"You're emotionally invested in this one, aren't you?" Oswald said knowingly.

"You have no idea."

"What do you want to do with Mr. Drifas?"

I looked at him imploringly, getting to my feet: "I don't know yet."

"You haven't anything planned?"

I stood in front of Oswald, muttering, "Nothing easy. I want him to suffer."

"Not that I mind, but may I ask why you are being so vindictive? There have been plenty of other people who've tried to undermine me."

"He raped his own fiancée."

Oswald stepped to the side to let me by, his eyes following me.

Standing in the kitchen, I looked at the burnt figure sitting in the chair; he was crying, begging to die. I tilted my head, thinking of what I wanted to do with him. Tomas and Gabe glanced at each other, small menacing smiles tugging at the corner of their mouths.

"Tomas," I addressed. "How many sisters do you have?"

"One."

"Is she married?"

"Yes."

"What would you do if you found out that your sister's husband has been raping her every single night?"

Tomas' right eye and jaw twitched. He replied dangerously, "I would chop off his hands and feet, and throw the rest of him off the pier so I could watch him drown."

I smiled, satisfied with his answer: "Do that with Mr. Drifas, here."

Happily, Tomas responded, "Yes, Ma'am. Gabe? You want to come along?"

"Sure!" Gabe said enthusiastically. "This should be fun!"

"This will be easy," Tomas stated, emitting a sinister chuckle: "I was hoping it would come to this. I parked out back _just_ for the occasion."

"Need help lifting the chair?"

"Are you kidding," Tomas laughed. "This guy weighs as much as my big toe."

They dragged Burke out the front door. I closed it after them, turning to Oswald. He slowly approached me.

"I'm sorry. That's not what you probably wanted to see after working at—mmm!"

He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulled me to him, and shoved his mouth against mine. His tongued pressed down on my bottom lip, to the center, sliding in to find my own. The kiss had taken me by surprise, but settling into it, I rubbed my hands down his chest. When the two of us needed to breathe, we broke the kiss naturally and I blinked at him.

"You're not mad?"

"' _Mad_ '? Why would I be mad? You not only eliminated a pest but what possibly could have been several more problems that would have arisen," Oswald said enthusiastically. "It's just…. well, when I gave you the job as my team leader, I didn't realize you would be so into your work."

I placed the pot in the sink and ran the water.

"I have an idea," Oswald said thoughtfully. "When I am not present, you'll be my second-in-command."

"I thought I was just going to be the team leader."

"Don't be modest, Pidge. We both know you're more than that."

"Ah shucks," I joked, beaming at him.

"Why didn't you tell me what you were planning?" Oswald asked.

"Well, you were happy to be given the club. I wanted you to enjoy that moment without worry. Speaking of worry, dinner shouldn't be a problem. We _do_ have leftovers," I suggested. "There's the steak casserole from the other day. I'd offer tomato soup, but—well you know."

Oswald chuckled, and I grinned broadly at him.

"Steak casserole sounds perfect."

**Chapter 13: I Try To Hurt Butch**

As I had promised, I met with Ms. Rubberdale the following day. After torturing her fiancé, I was surprised to see that she had actually shown up, if only just a few minutes ago. From the bar, I observed the scene, crossing one leg over the other; the bottom of my heel clicked the leg of the stool.

One of my waiters, Henry, was showing her the way; he offered her something to drink, but she swiftly declined. Like me, she wore a knee-length skirt; mine was white, and hers was gray… again. She seemed to like the color enough. The same waiter that serviced her approached me with his tray, placed vertically against his hip.

"Ms. Rubberdale, here to see you, Ma'am," Henry announced briskly.

Henry was dressed in the same flamboyant costume as the other waiters and the bartenders. He was younger than the rest of them, maybe even younger than my own guard. He had thick, black eyebrows and his dark hair was combed back with gel. Out of all the constituents of this bar, Henry was the most interesting—as young as he was, he didn't mind the rough characters that rolled up inside the workplace, or the violence that occurred every now and then.

He was all right in my book.

"Thank you," I said, smiling. "I'm guessing she didn't want anything to drink?"

"Nah," Henry answered. "Seems like she only wants to talk to you."

"You sound disappointed."

"Something like that."

He gazed at the woman over his shoulder, then turned to look at me.

"How old are you, son?

"I'm twenty-one…. a couple days ago, officially." Henry answered, smirking. "I can show you my ID if you don't believe me."

"I believe you. And I don't care about that. Do you like older women, Henry?"

Henry didn't appear abashed by the direction of the conversation. In fact, he raised his head a little higher. He placed the tray gingerly on the bar counter, leaned against it, and smiled secretively.

"What if I do?" Henry asked.

"No shame in it," I pointed out. "I'm just curious."

"You like embarrassing people, don't you? Playing with them." Henry asked, his voice deepening.

"You don't approve?"

"Oh, I _absolutely_ approve. But out of curiosity, why are you suddenly into my love life, Miss Gordon? Did you see something you like? Something tickle your fancy?"

I scoffed, "Don't flatter yourself, kid."

I uncrossed my leg and hopped off the stool.

"That woman there," I said, pointing to Ms. Rubberdale. "She has—sorry, _had—_ a fiancé used her and neglected her like his own spoils. The reason I am telling you this is that I doubt you can handle that much baggage at your age." I clapped him on the shoulder, adding, "And a little piece of friendly advice, something to take with you the next time you try to hit on your boss' wife?"

His face paled.

"Never assume that just because a woman talks about your love life that she automatically wants to have sex with you. It makes you come off as extremely arrogant, and that's off-putting."

Henry said quietly, "I thought women liked confidence."

"Oh, they do. Confidence is one thing; arrogance is another."

Henry scowled: "But they're the same."

I put my arm around him.

"Arrogance, Henry, is knowing who you are and knocking down every Harry, Dick, and Moe that comes your way because you've got something to prove. Confidence is when you walk into a room, and you don't have to compare yourself to anyone else." I explained lightly. I patted his shoulder: "If I were you, I would skip the widow and try talking to the pianist on stage."

Henry followed my direction to the stage where a woman around my age was sitting at a grand piano, warming up with the old classic, _Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star_. Henry glanced at me hesitantly; I winked at him, and he quickly took the tray and started towards the stage to offer the woman a glass of iced tea.

I observed the stage for a moment then surveyed the rest of the club, seeing Oswald speak to one of the guests. I supposed that after all of the stuff that went down with Mooney, Oswald was rebuilding the network—whether that was his idea or Falcone's, I hadn't the foggiest.

"You can just do it all, can't you?"

_I recognize that voice._

And sure, as shit, I did. Butch Gilzean stood in front of me, smiling plainly. I lifted my skirt just enough so I could reach under and grab the switch blade that had been strapped against inner thigh; just as quickly, I pressed the button; the blade shot out, and I advanced towards him.

"Whoa, whoa!" Butch began. "Sylvia, I—"

Oswald's attention had been pulled from the guests to my direction as Butch inched away, nearly stumbling back against the stool. I held the knife up to stab him, but Oswald caught my wrist.

"Sylvia, it's okay." He reassured.

" _Okay_?" I exclaimed incredulously. "It's Gilzean. He's loyal to Mooney" (I turned on Butch, glaring) "I don't trust you within thirty feet of me, or this place."

"I'm not working for her anymore!" Butch said, holding his hands up in front of him.

"The hell you aren't!" I snapped and I pulled my wrist out of Oswald's grip and tried to have another go at him. "I'll save us a lot of trouble and kill you myself!"

"Tell her, Penguin!"

Oswald let out an exasperated sigh and grabbed the switchblade from me completely, clicking the blade into place.

"Tell me _what_?" I questioned.

"He doesn't work for Mooney anymore, he's right," Oswald said, gesturing to Butch, who looked five times more relieved now that I didn't have a knife. "Falcone didn't want to get rid of him so Victor Zsasz worked on him. He does what I say now."

"Does he, now?" I challenged. I glanced at Butch, who was straightening his tie, then I looked at Oswald again. "When were you thinking of telling me this? After I killed him?"

"I'm nearly twice your height and I weigh more than you," Butch declared.

I shot him a death glare and Oswald said, "Not now, Butch. Sylvia, look at me."

I did as he asked with much reluctance. I didn't like my back facing the gorilla any more than I wanted him here in the same vicinity.

"I was going to tell you," Oswald said gently. "Due to the events of last night, it slipped my mind. So, I am telling you _now_. Butch Gilzean works for _me_."

"You trust him?"

"I'm still debating that myself," Oswald admitted, glancing over my shoulder at Butch.

"Can I just stab him?"

"No."

"Just a little?"

" _No_ ," Oswald said firmly.

I glared at Butch who watched Oswald and I talk as if it was some magic show; he just couldn't figure it out.

"Fine," I surrendered. "But if he so much as insults me, I'm taking out an eye."

"Fair enough."

I moved past him and sat in front of Tiffany Rubberdale who seemed to have been observing the argument with a fair amount of interest and anxiety. I clasped my hands together on the table and smiled pointedly.

"Still want a job?" I asked.

"Yes."

"I'll be honest with you, Ms. Rubberdale—"

"Tiffany," She insisted, smiling. "Please."

I spoke genuinely: "I'll be honest with you, Tiffany, if you are not one-hundred percent certain that you want to be here, you need to tell me. There are plenty of rough characters here, people who like to prey on vulnerability. They're like vultures—they'll go after it the moment they smell insecurity. And, right now, you're the poster girl for it."

Tiffany nodded slowly as I spoke.

"What would I have to do?" She asked softly.

"For one, you'll need to find your big girl voice. Second, I'll probably make you a waitress."

"I'm better at mixing drinks than waiting tables."

"Yes, but if someone makes you uncomfortable, you can't leave the bar. You'll have to deal with them in a calm, remote manner. No crying, no whining, that sort of thing."

"As long as they don't touch me," said Tiffany boldly. "I'm fine with the remarks."

"If someone touches you, I'll deal with them myself," I reassured sternly.

"You sound like you've had to deal with plenty of these characters."

"I've been on the receiving end as a waitress and a bartender. I know what it's like. And I also know what it's like to feel insecure after going through something like you have."

"I doubt your fiancé was tortured," Tiffany whispered.

"Well, I was talking about your relationship as a whole—not the torture bit. But I did do you a favor by getting rid of him."

Shamefully, she muttered, "Yes. Yes, you did."

"It doesn't get easier," I told her seriously. "You will never get over what he did to you. You'll probably have nightmares and feel scared all the time that it will happen again—and it might. But you're stronger for what you've been through, you know? Anyone tells you different, they're wrong. You don't get _over_ something like that. You just find a way to get through it until it becomes less overwhelming."

Tiffany tilted her head to the side curiously and her expressions softened to one of empathy.

"You've been through it too. Haven't you, Miss Gordon?"

I smiled sadly saying, "Yes. I have."

Her eyes started watering, seeing someone like me having gone through what she'd been through. I touched her wrist and she looked up at me, quickly dabbing her eyes with her finger before any of those tears could mess up her flawless foundation.

"How do you get through it?" Tiffany asked, her voice broke.

"First, you tell yourself it wasn't your fault. You find someone you trust and talk to them. Then you find a distraction."

"It _was_ my fault—I put up with it for so long…."

"And now you're free," I pointed out, gesturing to her as a person. "Now you can move on. Healing is about being able to move on, after all. And so long as you keep thinking about the past and trying to imagine what you could have done differently, you will never be able to fully live in the present."

Tiffany met my eyes. A single tear rolled down her cheek, but this time, she wasn't quick to wipe it away. It was like she had an epiphany—although I wasn't privy to see just what that was. She grinned suddenly, which made me feel a little uncertain about whatever revelation she was having.

"You're right," Tiffany said quietly. "Miss Gordon, if it's all right with you, I'd still like a job here. But I would really like to work at the bar. I find that mixing drinks can be therapeutic, you know?"

"Well, I don't think mixing a drink is therapeutic at all unless I'm drinking one after, but to each her own, I suppose. Are you certain that this is what you want?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Fine then," I said, as she shook it. "You'll start tomorrow. I'll notify the owner. You'll be added to the schedule and we'll go over the other minor details when you arrive. Acceptable?"

"Acceptable."

With that said, she gratefully thanked me once more, standing when I did, and I watched her leave. Butch approached me within my peripheral vision; after my nearly stabbing his neck, he seemed to learn that I didn't much care for surprise visits from behind. I glanced at him begrudgingly as Butch watched the woman leave as well.

"That was the darkest interview I'd ever heard," Butch uttered. "Was any of it true?"

"All of it was true."

"Who did it to you?" Butch asked.

I looked at him, saying, "That's a little personal, even for you."

"Whoever it was, I hope you made them pay for it."

"With more than just their life."

"Did they suffer?"

"All the way to the end," I told him. "Why do you sound so concerned? You and your friends nearly beat me to death the last time we spoke—hence my desire to stab you in the neck…. which, by the way, I'm still considering."

"Honestly, that was just business. That stuff though…Any man that hurts a woman in that sense deserves the worst."

"The last man that tried anything on me belonged to Maroni. I bit his dick off and shot him in the balls," I noted apathetically. "Does that fit your description?"

"More than ever," said Butch righteously, although he cringed at the thought. "What's your lean on getting close to the girl?"

"I don't have any plans for her, if that's what you're asking. She just needed someone to talk to. Her fiancé is dead—"

"—I hear you tortured him—"

"—And she has no one else to talk to," I continued as though I hadn't been interrupted.

"Lucky she has you then," said Butch quietly.

"Is she? I'm not exactly the shoulder one needs to cry on."

"You're something better. You're a realist. And that's what _she_ needs."

I chuckled darkly, "You sound like you respect me for it."

"Always have. One of the things I always liked about you."

"Aw, that's sweet."

"Does that mean you don't want to stab me?"

I considered it and said, "Nah. I don't really want to stab you _that_ much. But if you like, you can go hug a land mine."

I patted his shoulder and walked away with Butch looking after me with a small smile on his face.

**Chapter 14: Make 'Em Happy**

He called himself a comedian. I didn't know what was less funny—the fact that he called himself a comedian, or he was trying to prove it whilst on stage in front of ten other people. Sitting around the circular tables were said guests, all of whom appeared either bored, pissed, or both. The 'entertainment' of the night had started out pretty decent, giving an introduction to himself and then after that, it seemed to go downhill.

When people started jeering at him, he was steadily getting nervous, messing up his lines and jokes, despite the note cards he held in his hand. The gatherer of the entertainment was Butch Gilzean; he'd worked the scene for years with Fish Mooney backing him, and now, I had to wonder what miraculous thing this so-called comedian had done to pull the wool over his eyes.

_How was this guy even supposed to be 'funny' when he wasn't even that?_

He threw out another joke, stammering through it: "If you ever get cold, just s-stand in a corner for a bit. They're usually 98 degrees…. wait…." (he cleared his throat, looking at his cards) "I mean 90 degrees. Yeah, they're usually 90 degrees. Heh…."

More jeers came his way.

"Learn geometry, you shit!" One of the guests guffawed.

"Say something funny!"

"Do you know what 'funny' even means!"

_Tough crowd._

I strolled to the bar where Tiffany Rubberdale was shadowing one of the bartenders. Noticing me, she waved; I acknowledged her and saw Butch sitting at the end, drinking a whiskey shot. I sat down next to him.

"Where did you even find this guy?" I asked, referring to the nervous comedian. "Did you pull him out of a storm drain, post-monsoon?"

"You're hilarious," Butch said, smirking at me. "Maybe you should go up there."

"Fuck _that._ He's already got them riled up. No way I would go up there."

"You're pretty charismatic. Maybe you could calm them down."

"Said the spider to the fly."

He snickered at my response. Three of the staff members, excluding my own girl, were talking in hushed, urgent voices as the guests started throwing papers at the middle-aged man on stage. Oswald, who was watching the spectacle nervously, noticed, and he stepped to the bar counter.

"What's wrong?" Oswald questioned.

Henry and another employee left quickly so the older gentleman had to speak on their behalf. And he was nervous the entire time.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Penguin—I mean _the_ Penguin, I mean—" He stuttered.

Oswald held up a hand to stop him: " _What_ is it?"

Crestfallen, the man answered, "We're out of booze."

"What—hello, behind you there is a wall of booze," Oswald pointed out incredulously.

"That's just colored water, always has been," said the bartender weakly. "We keep the real stuff down here, but we're out."

"Then, duh, order more!" Oswald uttered impatiently.

"We tried but—"

"It's Maroni's booze," Butch finished for the nervous man, earning Oswald's attention. "And he's a little grumpy with you these days."

Relieved that the attention was directed away from him, the nervous bartender resigned to cleaning the countertop and pretending that all was well. Henry came out of the back, muttering something quizzically to his senior before the man responded, "Just don't say anything to the rest of them."

Oswald approached him, glancing at me then to Butch.

"He was hardly a fan of Fish either. Why did he sell _her_ booze?"

Butch replied, "Business is business. But he hates you with a passion. And he can't kill you so…"

"This is ridiculous," Oswald responded, annoyed. "There must be a thousand places to buy booze!"

"Well, that's where it gets complicated—"

"—As if it wasn't _already_ complicated—" I muttered.

"—Maroni supplies to this whole side of town," Butch continued without interruption. "And no one would dare cross him to help you."

Just at that moment, the guests started throwing more than just wads of paper at the entertainment: I swore I heard glass shatter.

"Fuck…." I muttered. "I'll be right back."

Oswald looked at me curiously, although I said nothing in response. He turned to Butch to continue their conversation about acquiring what apparently was necessary for the club's prosperity: good alcohol, for one. And I figured I would provide the other: entertainment.

I stood on the stage and looked at the comedian.

"Get _off_." I hissed.

"But I'm—" He began. (A bottle of beer shattered at his feet and he bowed stiffly to me.) "See you later!"

I turned to the crowd, squinting against the blinding lights, and lowered the microphone to my height.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and self-identified objects in the audience," I greeted, smiling sweetly.

The jeers stopped, if only just to see where I was going with this.

Improvisation was not my strongest suit—and I admittedly had a bit of stage fright. My legs felt like they were being placed in a vat of iced water, and my heartbeat thumped through a small vein in my neck.

"So, I apologize for the so-called comedian," I said lightly. "When we hired him, we thought he would be, you know…funny."

Someone tittered in the audience, if only for moral support.

"With a show of hands, how many of you here have a dark sense of humor?" I asked, raising my own indicatively. After a moment, I said to the stagehand, "Would you please turn down the lights? I can't see anyone agreeing with me."

"Sure…." one of the staff members stood to the side and dimmed the lights. I was able to see my audience.

Everyone except a few were raising their hands. In the back, nearest to the bar, Butch and Oswald had finished talking; the latter strolled up the stage. I sensed that he wanted to speak to me shortly and I lowered myself down to hear him.

"What are you doing?" Oswald asked.

"Keeping the people happy," I reasoned. "They want a comedian. They'll get one."

"I thought you didn't like the stage," Oswald reminded.

"I don't," I muttered, uneasily glancing back at audience, all of whom began talking amongst themselves. "I have never been more terrified in my entire life."

"Why are you doing this then?"

"Like I said, to keep the guests happy." I gave him a once-over. "You look like you're on a mission."

"As I just finished telling Butch, I have to procure some alcohol for my dwindling clientele," Oswald said, verbatim. "In the meantime, would you ensure that nothing else goes awry in my absence?"

"You got it, boss." I said dutifully. "Is Butch going with you?"

"I highly doubt it. Despite his previous affirmations, I still believe he enjoys watching me fail."

"If the crowd goes up in arms, I suppose it'll be nice having him around to disperse the crowd while I try and make a run for it, huh?" I joked. "Have fun, boss. Take Tomas with you—he's an efficient form of back-up."

"Fine then. You'll be all right here by yourself?" Oswald asked; there was a protective edge to his tone.

"Five-by-five."

He kissed my hand and strode away. I straightened and smiled at the crowd again. They were watching expectantly.

"Okay," I continued. "Let's have a bit of honesty in the crowd, huh? How many of you are gangsters?"

A couple hands rose to the air.

"Two. Okay, you can put your hands down. Now, how many of you don't like pineapple on pizza?" I asked curiously.

The couple lowered their hands and everyone else raised their own.

I said loudly, "That makes all of you just as bad as the rest of us!"

More snickers, and the two self-identified gangsters laughed loudly in appreciation.

"You know, most people don't know how an architect measures the distance between the roof of a building and its foundation." I told the crowd.

The guests glanced at each other.

"Sure, there's all sorts of ways to measure—yard sticks, tape, the like. But here in Gotham, we have a different way of measuring distance from the roof to the ground, don't we?"

There was a titter of agreement.

I said smoothly, "A lot of people would presume that the person who built the Gotham Bridge used the measuring stick to determine the distance from the pinnacle to the ground. In Gotham, we just tie a rope around two of our own people, push them off the ledge, and wait for the bodies to hit the ground, and _then_ we cut the rope. It gives a brand-new meaning to the old adage 'measure twice, cut once'."

At first there were crickets. Then one snicker caused a ripple effect of several giggles. Butch looked at me from the back of the room, smirking. Some people clapped and one fella even whistled in approval. I did a little bow and gestured for the pianist to come on stage. The stagehands rolled a piano onto the surface.

"Thank you, everyone," I addressed the crowd. "Next up, we have a pianist. Accompanying her is John Dubianchi. I'm assuming they're going to be performing together as one, otherwise this will be an awkward moment for all of us."

A few snorted in laughter—I think they were still drunk off laughter from the dark joke. I placed the microphone up at a higher setting since John, the singer, stood taller than myself. He looked at me appreciatively.

"I'm glad you got them in a better mood," He muttered in a deep voice. "I was about to write my will."

"Don't be too quick to reconsider," I warned. "It's a tough crowd."

"I didn't realize Penguin had a sense of humor," said John with a smile. I sent him a confused look, and he added, "He must have a good sense of humor if he managed to catch you."

"Aw shucks."

The pianist, the same that Henry had tried hitting on, looked at me expectantly, saying, "Our other performer is running late."

"What do you mean 'running late'?" I asked.

"She's running behind on time."

"I know what 'running late' means," I snapped, glaring at her.

"Carol," John addressed the pianist, "Where _is_ Rose?"

"I don't know," Carol answered resentfully. "She was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago—before that guy came on stage and started ruining everything."

"I don't know. Rose was supposed to sing with me."

"Who is Rose?" I asked.

"We're doing a duet together," said John unhappily. "That was the whole point of the damn piano."

"Don't look at me like that, Johnathan," Carol snapped. "You knew full and well that my piano was going to be up here. It's not my fault Rose is late—she is _always_ late—"

"Shut up, the two of you!" I ordered.

Carol and John looked at me quizzically.

I turned to John: "The guests are waiting. What do you want me to do?"

"Can you sing?" John asked.

"I—"

"Can you _sing_?" He demanded. "All I need is someone who can sing. Then we're fine. Then we're good."

"Sure, I can sing," I responded defensively. "I can sing very beautifully—but I don't do this sort of thing."

"Sing?"

"Anything on stage. I hate being on stage in the limelight."

"You were just doing it," John pointed out, indicating my comedy bit.

"That was all improvisation!" I snapped—my snippy remark hid my panic. "I can't fucking sing on stage. I'll fucking die of a heart attack."

"Do you know anything with Elvis Presley?" John asked.

" _What_?"

"Elvis Presley—King of—"

"—I know who Elvis Presley is!" I interrupted snidely. "Why does that fucking matter?"

Carol butted in: "Do you know the lyrics to 'Can't Help Falling In Love With You'?"

"Of course, I do. It's a classic."

"That's our song," said John, glancing between Carol and myself. "That's the one Rose and I were going to sing, but she's not here. And your guests, Miss Gordon, are getting ticked off…."

I glanced at the crowd, watching them frown back at me: "You two are infuriating."

"We're not able to do the song without—" Carol began, but John interrupted her.

"Rose isn't coming, for god's sake. Miss Gordon…." John looked at me desperately. "Will you please?"

"Ugh, **fine**." I hissed, grabbing the microphone.

"Thank you so much." John said gratefully.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah—you owe me a drink after this!"

"I'll buy you a _round_."

I looked at the crowd once more.

"Good Evening…again," I said with a soft laugh (only to hide my nerves). "I'm back!"

Frowns turned to smiles.

_Well, that's always a good sign._

"Today, there has been a change of events," I told them all calmly. "How many of you like Elvis Presley?"

The majority of the people in the crowd (from ten people had now become twenty) raised their hands. I noticed Butch was gone—how long he'd been gone, I didn't know—but that was rectified as I saw Oswald and Butch come into the club, shortly followed by Tomas and others with a _lot_ of crates. I figured that they had been able to acquire what the club had been desperately needing.

"Well," I continued with some gusto. "Tonight will be one of those nights where improvisation is apparently the theme of entertainment."

From the back, Oswald and Butch were talking and drinking together (That was odd) and they turned in their seats to see me on the stage for the second time tonight. I forced my attention back to the audience, who were expectantly watching.

"Apparently," (I slapped myself mentally as I heard my own voice shake). "Apparently, the third performer, a woman named Rose, has failed to show to sing a duet with Mr. Dubianchi…. I know, it sucks, right?" (I responded to the jeers.) "However, in light of circumstance, I will be taking her place."

I glared at John, muttering, "The things I do for these people astounds me."

"You're doing great," John whispered.

"Just play the goddamn song!" I hissed. "John, you'll have to nudge me when my part comes up. I have no fucking idea when to start and when to end."

"I'll help you." John reassured.

"Fucking better."

Carol played the intro.

Then John sang in marvelous imitation of Elvis Presley's voice:

" _Wise men say_

_Only fools rush in._

_But I can't help_

_falling in love with you."_

He nudged me.

I sang (shakily at first then steadily, my voice only shook due to my vibrato rather than my anxiety):

" _Shall I stay_

_Would it be a sin?_

_If I can't help_

_Falling in love with you."_

Then we both sang in perfect harmony, where his natural deep baritone rose half an octave and my natural soprano lowered to an alto:

" _Like a river flows_

_Surely to the sea_

_Darling, so it goes,_

_Some things are meant to be."_

John nudged me. I glanced up and saw Oswald smiling at me.

I sang:

" _Take my hand._

_Take my whole life too._

_For I can't help_

_Falling in love with you."_

Then once more, in harmony, John and I sang:

" _Like a river flows_

_Surely to the sea_

_Darling so it goes_

_Some things are meant to be."_

" _Take my hand._

_Take my whole life too._

_For I can't help_

_Falling in love with you."_

John finished the song, smiling lovingly at Carol; and I noticed Oswald mouthed the words back to me:

" _For I can't help_

_Falling in love with you."_

Carol smiled back at John and the soft piano music trailed off naturally.

At first there were crickets. But then slowly but surely, an eruption of genuine applause thundered throughout the club. I stared at everyone incredulously, looking at John and Carol who were grinning back at me.

John spoke in the microphone: "Give Miss Gordon a round of applause! Wasn't she just beautiful!"

There was an encore. I felt my face burn a deep shade of red and was certain that it outdid the color of my own ginger roots. Looking further back in the crowd, Oswald was clapping as well, and he winked at me. Even Butch was clapping, a small smile trying to tug its way at the corner of his mouth.

I cleared my throat and said into the microphone: "Well, thank you all for that. And let's give a round of applause for John Dubianchi and his lovely wife, Carol Dubianchi."

I introduced the next bit of entertainment who appeared to be some puppeteer and strode off the stage. John and Carol met me at the end of the stairs.

"You certainly do sing beautifully," John noted. "That went better than if Rose was actually here."

Carol said pointedly, "I'd have sung it, but I don't have the same type of pipes."

"Well, you do, but you just prefer to play the piano than sing with me, darling," John returned, smirking at me. "She's always making excuses not to sing with me."

"You make excuses not to clean the bathroom—"

"—That's a whole different story—"

"—I consider them the same—"

"—I can't believe we're going to rehash this argument again—"

John and Carol continued on their way, hand-in-hand. I looked after them, perplexed, wondering how long they had been together.

I felt eyes on me, so I turned to see Oswald smiling brightly.

"You were magnificent," He praised. "Stunning as ever."

"Had no choice! Rose never showed."

"I doubt the performance would have been the same—especially the audience's response." Oswald commented. (I half-smiled.) "They love you."

"So, I can sing. Whoop-de-woop."

Butch popped up from behind, adding, "Not just your voice—they responded to _you_. You had them dying of laughter in their seats!"

"I sure hope not," I said pointedly. "Our numbers would go down."

Butch chuckled, pointing at me: "See, that humor? That's what they like—you have charisma, Sylvia. You were made to entertain."

"I'm not made to do anything," I told Butch coolly. "I simply took the stand because if I didn't, they all would have left. But I will admit. It felt pretty good."

Oswald took my hand, kissed the back of it: "You know what I'm going to suggest, Pigeon" (Butch glanced at him oddly, hearing the pet name) "You let me know what you decide."

"Sure," I said, smiling. "I'll let you know by the end of the day."

He leaned into me, kissed my cheek, and then walked on. Butch looked at me expectantly.

"What?" I said defensively.

"'Pigeon'?" Butch repeated.

"Can't be worse than 'Butch'." I teased.

"You're terrible—I got to choose that name; and I like it."

"Well, I could call you 'Bitch'. It's only one vowel off."

"I'd rather you not."

I shrugged saying, "Options, Butch. Options."

"I guess you're liking me a little more, huh?" He suggested as I followed him to the bar; he sat beside me. "Not so grumpy with me anymore?"

"I'm still debating. You used to work for her, for Fish."

"You did too."

"We both know I didn't really work for her just to work _for her_. I did it so I could work _with him_."

Butch looked past me to see Oswald directing Tomas and Gabe as far as where to store the newly acquired booze and so on. I followed his gaze and turned back to look at Butch.

"You'd go above and beyond for that guy, wouldn't you?" Butch guessed.

"You're not as stupid as you look," I said, smirking. "And I already have. And I would go even further, if he asked it of me."

He poured me a shot of whiskey, offering it to me: "What's he done for _you_?"

"He's my fiancé. All he has to do is be there for me. So far he has—more than anyone else has in the past."

"How's your brother, the detective?"

I shrugged: "He has a new girlfriend."

"The thing with the blonde fell through?" Butch asked. "I liked her."

"I know you did. And it's because of you and Zsasz that she left Gotham in the first place," I said curtly.

"It was just a job, Sylvia," Butch explained, business-like. "You know how Fish is."

" _Was_ ," I corrected. "She's not in Gotham anymore."

"You don't think she'll come back?" Butch asked stoically.

"Am I to assume that you think that she will?"

He said nothing to the fact.

"Let me tell you something, Mr. Gilzean," I said carefully. "Victor may have fixed you in his basement, wired you to do whatever Oswald tells you to do. But I am still on the fence about your loyalty. I'll be friendly to you because Oswald wants me to, but…." I downed the shot of whiskey. "You make one move to hurt the love of my life, I will gut you and make you eat your own fucking intestines. Got me?"

Butch nodded, unaffected: "I got you."

"Cool beans," I said. I smiled, "Now that's out of the way…." I refilled his glass. "How did you get Maroni to give you this much alcohol?"

"We stole it."

"Shocker there. How'd you manage that?"

"Well, your 'love of your life' wanted to go in, guns blazing. But I have a few cops in the pocket still. They helped us out."

"Which officers?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Butch taunted.

"I can punch you in the face and then ask again nicely."

"I'd rather you not."

I smiled saying, "Like I said, Butchy. Options."

"'Butchy'?" He scoffed.

"Do you prefer 'Bitch'?"

"No."

"Then 'Butchy' it is." I clinked my glass against his: "Cheers."

**Chapter 15: Sibling Hate-Love Relationship**

Tiffany had only been working in the club scene for a week. Not even a week. So naturally, I didn't think anything would have happened so quickly. I'd gathered the day shift together before the club opened, dishing out the duties to the individuals such as who would be responsible for taking out the trash for pick-up, who would be waiting on which tables, and who would be ensuring peace among the more drunken patrons, as well as responsible for counting the register at the end of the day—that sort of thing. I'd dropped down to the bottom of the list.

"Who is going to show Tiffany how to make a slippery nipple—stop giggling, folks, we're grown adults here!" I said without looking up from my list (once more, I was standing on a chair because I was short).

"Tiffany isn't here, Boss," Henry spoke up.

I looked up and turned my head to the left where his voice had sounded. The staff glanced at each other, then at me nervously.

"Why not?" I asked calmly. "Is she sick?"

"She's in the hospital," Henry answered politely.

I placed my notepad on the table none too gently. Some of them flinched.

"And no one bothered to tell me!" I questioned irritably.

Unaffected by my mood change, Henry continued with the same politeness: "She was in a car accident, couple blocks from here. Some guys in a van ran a red light—newspapers are calling them the 'Red Hood Gang'. Ever since they started robbing banks."

"How long ago?"

"Couple days ago. The Gang's been robbing banks and—"

"I don't care what the gang is doing, kid. I meant when did Tiffany get hurt?" I said vehemently.

"Oh, sorry. Yesterday."

"Fine. Get to work. I'll be back."

"Who's in charge while you're gone?" asked one of the nameless bartenders.

" _Penguin_ , you idiot!" I snapped. "I'm only in charge when _he_ isn't here."

"Oh right…."

_Fucking morons._

I called Oswald on my way to the hospital, speaking into the phone while driving one-handed. He answered on the third ring.

"It's me," I said quickly before he could say something to distract me. "I left the club, and I'm on my way to the hospital."

I could hear the worry in his tone when he asked, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm just going to visit Tiffany."

" _Who_?"

"The girl that started working at the bar," I clarified. "You know—burnt and dead fiancé, battered woman…."

"Oh, her." Oswald recalled.

"Yes, 'her'. Henry just told me she was in a car accident. I'm going to make sure she is okay."

"All right. Is there anything I can do?"

"No. I just wanted to let you know where I was going," I returned sweetly. "I'll call you when I leave. I love you."

"Love you too."

We hung up at the same time.

Prior to arriving, I stopped by the nearest fast food joint, and purchased a chicken sandwich, fries, and a diet Sprite. I parked the car just outside the hospital, striding into Gotham General. I stood in line behind an irritable mother and her obnoxious devil spawn before the pediatrician called the patient's name and the kid started running towards them; a wave of relief washed over the woman's face as she accompanied her son to his appointment. Shortly after, the receptionist asked for my name.

"Sylvia Gordon," I answered politely. "I'm here to see an employee of mine: her name is Tiffany Rubberdale. She may also go by 'Drifas'?"

"Ah yes," said the receptionist. She looked at me sternly. "Do you have any association with a 'Burke Drifas'? It says here that he is not permitted to come within fifty feet of her."

_She had a restraining order against him. Good girl._

"I have nothing to do with that man," I promised.

"You're not on the restricted list…. her room is on the third floor. If you go up the elevator to the third floor and go down the hall to your right, her room will be first on the left."

"Third floor, right, then left, got it. Thank you very much, Ma'am."

"No problem. Next!"

I did as she instructed, swerving through the hallways before finally finding a working elevator. This place was a damn maze! I didn't think I would be back in Gotham General for another year or so…. you know, until I was shot in the neck again by another moron.

I took the elevator up, thankfully alone. When the doors opened, I continued to the right and stopped at the first room I saw on the left. The door was halfway closed. I tapped the frame with my knuckles, rapping lightly.

_"Come in."_

I slipped inside, pushed aside the curtain, and pulled it back to its original position when I had come in. Tiffany Rubberdale was sitting upright in the bed, a tray of food in front of her. Seeing as she hadn't touched any of it, I could not help but smile.

"How are you?" I asked gently.

For having gotten into a car accident, she looked great. A few scratches on her face where debris had flown and had torn into her skin, and she had a few bruises on her exposed legs. The bruises on her arms left by her abusive ex-fiancé were now yellow, but healing.

"Hungry," Tiffany answered gravely.

I placed the bag of fast food in front of her.

"Oh, bless you," Tiffany thanked, smiling widely. "I've not eaten real food all day."

"I know the feeling," I returned, smiling as well. "It's like prison food, but worse."

"Is that from experience as well?"

"Partly," I admitted shamelessly. "I was in and out of Juvie as a teenager. The food doesn't get any better."

I sat on the edge of her bed while she gorged on the chicken sandwich. The pleased look on her face made me reconsider if I should have even been in the same room as her and a chicken sandwich; she looked as though she might black out from a powerful orgasm as she ate a delicious French fry, licking her lips.

"How did you find out where I was?" Tiffany asked, licking her lips again. She took a long drink of the Diet Sprite.

"One of your co-workers mentioned that you were in an accident. And you didn't show up for work," I told her. "I was worried."

"Sorry I didn't call," Tiffany said remorsefully. "It's not that I didn't want to. It's just that I couldn't. I don't have anyone's number…."

I stood and pulled a napkin from the dispenser and wrote my personal phone number on it with the marker that had been left on a dry-erase board nailed on the door; it detailed the current names of nurses and doctors of the hour. The nurses switched patients every four hours; the doctors, every twelve.

"You were magnificent, by the way," Tiffany complimented as she threw the scrap of her dinner into the trash bin beside her. "On stage. You have a nice voice."

"Thanks."

"It's like listening to a choir of angels sing in all kinds of harmony, but instead, you're only one person. It's really magnetic, in some ways. I bet you get that a lot."

"Yes, but not in so many words and certainly not so descriptive."

"Am I embarrassing you?"

"Yes, but I can take it."

"You don't like to sing in public, do you?"

"Only Oswald and my brother have ever really heard me sing," I commented factually. "I don't prefer to sing in public because I have stage fright. I make a great effort not to get out of my comfort zone."

"You're good at it, though. I listened to you, to the people in the crowd. They liked you—and not just the singing, the comedy act too. They responded to you. All of those people were cheering you on, and it's because they relate to you on a personal level."

"You're quite the motivational speaker today."

"I'm only telling you what everyone else wants you to see. You don't pretend to be someone you're not. You show who you are up front. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

"Got all of that from me telling a dark joke, did you?" I said skeptically.

"You connected with them."

"Connecting with a crowd full of gangsters would not be the highest point of my life."

"Well, at least you know who you're dealing with," Tiffany murmured, glancing at her IV monitor. "You _see_ people. You can read them."

"It's not a gift, I assure you. I was raised by a District Attorney and my brother is a detective. You learn to see things objectively…. sometimes the heart gets involved; that's when things get a little muddy."

"Like with what happened with Burke?" Tiffany piped.

I raised my eyebrows at her, not having expected that reaction.

She continued knowingly, "You tortured him because he was working against Penguin. But you didn't decide to kill him until _after_ you found out what he had been doing to _me_. Not that I don't appreciate what you did for me."

I smiled saying, "Perhaps I'm not the only one that can read people."

She smiled back.

A nurse came inside, changed out the IV drip and wrapped the cord around the machine, wordlessly pulling it out of the hallway after disinfecting it. She acknowledged me with a curt nod of her head, and she was out of the door.

"Has the doctor said whether or not you would be discharged today?" I asked, changing the topic.

"No. But he was here early in the morning. Seven-ish."

"And how's the prognosis?"

"Mild," Tiffany reported nonchalantly. "The people that hit my car caused a fender bender. I've got a few scrapes, some scratches, but no broken bones." (She smiled guiltily.) "You know better than anyone else that I have experienced a lot worse."

"That, I do." I said, patting her hand.

"Looks busy out there," Tiffany noted.

And it was. People were bustling about, holding clipboards, pointing every which a way but not in such an urgent matter as they had done before when a code was going over the intercom.

"Maybe it's shift change," I suggested.

"Maybe. Do you want me to let you know when I get discharged?"

"Please do. Call me anytime; I always have my phone."

"Thanks, Miss Gordon."

I held out my hand. She took it.

"Sylvia," I corrected sweetly.

"Thank you…. Sylvia," Tiffany said happily.

I left the room and started walking down the hall. Then I bumped into Jim, who was holding a wrapped bagel, purchased from the food court. Seeing me, Jim did a double glance.

"Vee!" He exclaimed, cracking a smile.

"Hey," I greeted. I glanced at the sandwich: "What are you doing here?"

"Visiting a friend," said Jim vaguely. "You?"

"Doing the same." I returned, gesturing behind me to the door I just closed. "She was in a car accident—fender bender. Have you heard of this Red Hood Gang yet?"

"Of course. People are standing in banks just waiting for them to rob it so they can get their fair share of the loot."

"Is that right? Well, if you get the inside scoop of which bank they'll be targeting next, would you let me know? I wouldn't mind having an extra bit of cash for Christmas shopping."

Jim gave me a look that said 'don't you even dare' but then asked sincerely, "Is your friend okay?"

"She'll be fine," I nodded. "Only a few scratches. The Gang totaled her car—she's awake if you want to try for a description of the driver."

"That's generous of you," Jim said, glancing inside the room where Tiffany was. "I'll try her later."

"How's _your_ friend?" I glanced at the bagel. "Hungry, I guess?"

"Doing well." He answered, then arbitrarily asked, "Do you want to meet Bruce Wayne?"

Skeptically, I said, " _The_ Bruce Wayne? Parents-Murdered-In-Crime-Alley Bruce—?"

"Yeah," He cut me off short. " _That_ Bruce. His butler was stabbed—"

"No one is safe in Gotham anymore, are they? Corrupted people floating up from weather balloons…. Non-offenders thinking they're goats and going after rich kids…. Butlers are getting stabbed..."

Jim smiled bitterly saying, "That's the way it goes."

"I didn't even know anyone employed butlers anymore."

"The Waynes are an old-traditional kind of family."

"I shouldn't be surprised."

"About the tradition?"

"No—that butlers are getting stabbed."

"You're surprised at that?"

"I am, but I _shouldn't_ be."

"Come with me. I'll introduce you." Jim offered, taking my wrist. "The fresh faces will be good for you."

"Fresh 'blood', you mean," I teased.

"You're hilarious."

He guided me into a room where an older gentleman lied in bed; however, due to the upright position, he was sitting up. Like Tiffany had been before, he was hooked up to two machines. A younger lad, who I could only assume was Bruce Wayne, sat in a large brown armchair: narrow chin, dark brown eyes, darker hair, and skinny.

"Slim pickings from the food court," Jim said as he entered, handing the bagel to Bruce.

Seeing me, Bruce suddenly stood. It caught me by surprise.

"Hey—Hi," Bruce greeted nervously. His eyes darted to Jim, then to the butler, then back at me.

"Bruce, this is my sister, Sylvia. Sylvia, this is Bruce Wayne, and his butler, Alfred Pennyworth."

Like the gentleman he had been raised to behave, Bruce held out his hand and I shook it. Alfred was bed-ridden, it appeared, so I strolled to his side of the bed. He held out his hand to shake mine and when I gave it to him, he kissed the back of my hand.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Alfred replied—he had a British accent.

"Through and through," I said with a smile, and he returned it.

Bruce sat down, saying shyly, "I didn't know you had a sister, Detective."

I poked Jim in the ribs.

"He's so secretive," I teased, smirking at him.

"Your name just never came up," Jim explained.

"Funny—I mention you to all of _my_ friends. They can't stop talking about _you_."

Jim rolled his eyes, despite Alfred and Bruce exchanging suspicious glances.

"I just happened to be visiting a friend of mine," I told them politely. "She was in a car accident yesterday."

"I do hope she's alright," Alfred commented.

"She's fine, thanks for asking."

"Do you live with Detective Gordon?" Bruce asked suddenly.

"That's a little personal, Master Bruce, don't you think?" Alfred scolded softly.

"It's fine," I reassured. "To answer your question, I don't. My fiancé just recently moved in with me. The dust is finally starting to settle."

"Funny you say that," Jim muttered. "I hear you have a couple roommates."

" _One_ roommate," I corrected. "And Tomas _isn't_ a 'roommate'. He's a guard."

"A guard for what?" Bruce asked curiously.

"Extra security," I quipped, grinning despite the kid's growing curiosity. "Can't be too careful these days."

"No, you can't," Alfred said coolly.

I suspected there was something else in that tone of his, but I couldn't pick up on his meaning. However, he and Bruce exchanged a set of glances. I looked at Jim inquisitively, but he just shrugged a shoulder like he didn't know what it meant either.

"Well, this has been fun and only slightly awkward," I pointed out, clasping my hands together. "If you don't mind, I have to get back to work. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Pennyworth—"

"—Alfred—" He insisted as I shook his hand.

"…Alfred," I repeated, smiling kindly. I shook Bruce's hand as well: "And it's been a pleasure meeting you, Bruce Wayne." (I turned to Jim). "Tiffany is awake if you want to ask her about the driver. I can let her know that you'll be dropping by for a visit."

"That'll be helpful; thanks, Vee."

"What are siblings for?" I said, bumping my hip playfully into his.

"I'll walk you out," Jim offered, placing his hand in the middle of my back.

When we were a few paces from the room, I sensed that Jim wanted to speak more in private. I leaned my shoulder against the glass; he looped a couple fingers through the belt loops of his slacks, ball of his hand on his hips. It was going to be one of _those_ discussions. I prepared myself for an argument.

"Listen," Jim began in a hushed tone, "I know you're angry with me for not shooting Travinsky when you told me too. I also know there's some stuff going on with you that you're not ready to tell me yet—"

"I told you what happened to me. We spoke on the phone, remember?"

"You sounded apathetic on the phone."

"Well, it was a traumatic experience. I'm fine now."

"That doesn't mean you've healed," Jim said softly. "You need to talk to someone about what happened in that office with Maroni's men."

"I talked to Oswald."

"I mean, talking to a therapist, or someone who can help you move on."

"I _have_ moved on," I insisted coolly. "You're just unhappy because I didn't come to _you_."

"Fine, you got me," Jim admitted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I am a little disappointed that you went to Cobblepot before you came to me…Surprised me, actually."

"Why would it? He's my fiancé."

"I'm your _brother_."

I scoffed, "Oh good lord, it's not about **you** , Jim. It's about me. I felt more comfortable talking to Oswald about what happened. If you have trouble understanding that, I'm sorry. I was in a dark place—and he helped me through it."

"What did _he_ have to do to get you through it, though?" Jim said suspiciously.

I smiled but it didn't reach my eyes this time.

"He was there for me when I needed him to be," I said steadily. "We went out to dinner, we had normal conversation. When I talked about what happened, he was understanding. We didn't argue about nonsense like you and I have a tendency to do. And let's face it, Jim: You and I don't talk unless you need something from me—don't look at me like that, you _know_ it's true!"

" _We_ could have met up for lunch, talked about what happened," Jim suggested pointedly.

"And then we would have been interrupted by your job—yet again."

Jim frowned saying, "You can't say I don't make time for you."

"Oh really? When _do_ you?" I retorted.

"Forgive me if my _honorable_ job keeps me from having a day off while your crooked boyfriend—"

"Oh please, not _this_ again. We're not talking about Oswald. We're talking about you!"

"You're comparing—"

I cut him off furiously: " _You're_ the one who keeps comparing yourself to him! You're so jealous that he and I are closer than you or I will ever be! Despite what his position in Falcone's ranks consist of, he _always_ makes time for me. Always. That's more than what can be said about you."

"You know what my job entails!" Jim snarled.

"I sure do. But you can't use that as an excuse for not dropping by for a visit. You don't just come to me because you want to see me."

"I came and saw you when you were in the hospital."

"Sure, you did. You were worried about me. Of course, you would be; I'm your **kin**." I told him pointedly. "You felt guilty for not taking down Travinsky when I told you to. You came to visit me because you needed to know that I forgave you for what happened, and I have. But like I said, you came—not because I was in the hospital, hurting—but because _you_ needed something from me. You _needed_ to hear that my getting shot wasn't your fault, so you could sleep better at night. And after that, you didn't come visit me again until well after the fact."

He seemed to protest but I was on a roll, so I kept going.

I kept my tone relatively calm: "I've put you before myself _many_ times: When Barbara left, who did you come to? When you were going after Sionis and none of your corrupted asshat cop buddies came, who was fighting alongside you the entire fucking time, huh?"

"I didn't ask you to come—"

" _You didn't have to!_ You were going into danger _alone—_ and your cop friends may have hated you, but they should have gone, none the less. I put aside my plans, my job, even my own personal welfare to make sure that you didn't face that horse's ass alone. I didn't ask for anything in return, James! And what about when you and Harvey were about to take down Falcone and the Mayor, where did you go first to hunker down from the other crime families? You went to _me_. And Lord knows _I_ didn't get anything out of it."

Jim was frowning deeply.

_"_ Face it, James. You come to me on your own initiative when you want something from me," I said bluntly. "It'd be nice to be graced by your presence without there being something in it for you for a change—speaking of which, I do _not_ appreciate you turning down Oswald's invitation. After all, _he_ helped **you** put away Flass!"

Jim shoved his hand over my mouth as a doctor and nurse walked by; the hospital staff gave us a quick second-glance before hurrying onto the next whining patient. I glared at him and he slowly put his hand down apologetically.

"You want to say that a little louder?" Jim dared. "I don't think everyone in the hospital heard you."

"See—you don't want any part of my life until you are desperate for help, and when you finally get it, you pretend it never happened. You snub the people who helped you from the beginning," I sneered. "You know what that's called, Jimmy? Huh? It's called 'being a hypocrite'. You say you detest dirty cops—"

"—That's because I do—"

"—You work with several—"

"—That's because I have to—"

"—Just like you _had_ to go to Oswald to get dirt on Flass so _you_ could 'single-handedly' put him down?" I snapped. "Is that something you just _had_ to do?"

"Don't you—"

"Don't I _what_? Say what's true? Say what _you_ are too afraid to say, or are too ashamed to admit? Your hands are dirty. And you pretend they're not except for all the times when **they are**!"

Jim frowned at me.

I took a deep breath, rubbed my face, and forced myself to speak calmly due to the fact that there were people starting to peer over at us from the bays.

"You're an idealist, a moralist. And how I _envy_ that. God knows I hate you for it. But it's the same reason I love you. Just like the reason you love _me_ is that I'm a realist; I don't feed around the bush. I don't bullshit. I'm not about to start now."

"You're angry because I threw away a stupid invitation?" Jim exclaimed incredulously.

"Is that really the only thing you've heard? The fucking invitation is not the issue, here—it's you. If you don't want to own up to the fact that you got your hands dirty, fine—but don't come to Oswald, asking for a favor, and then treat him like yesterday's news. You treat Oswald like a tool! And he _knows_ you do!" I responded passionately. "And he _lets_ you because he wants to be your friend."

"I don't want to be his friend."

"Fine!" I retorted. "Then you should expect from here on out that any favor you request of him, you'll owe him one in return!"

Jim frowned, pointing to the elevators: "I think you should go."

"Wow, Jim—for once you've come up with something that _doesn't_ sound like a bad idea."

I turned on my heel. He watched me leave. I didn't look back.

A/N: So, I'll admit that a lot of my personal emotions made their way into this chapter. I hated it when Gordon told Oswald he didn't want him in the GCPD station anymore and threw his invitation away. I wanted to punch him in the nose. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed that chapter. :) It was fun writing it!

**Chapter 16: Hurricane Sylvia**

A/N: TRIGGER WARNING: Sylvia experiences some strong emotions and side effects of sexual assault from previous chapter. But Oswald comes through for her by the end of the chapter. Tomas said the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person.

**NARCO DETECTIVE VINDICATED: Murder Charges Dropped.**

I dropped the titled _Gotham Gazette_ down on the coffee table, and reclined back against the couch, nestling comfortably in my living room.

Had Jim and I not ended things badly at the hospital, I would have called him up and asked to see if he was okay— Flass getting released even after having the murder weapon, I knew that had to get him steamed.

I wouldn't call him though. I was still seething from the argument. I felt guilty for yelling at him, calling him a dirty cop, but was I wrong?

_Nope, you're absolutely right…_

He was hurt by my words, I could tell. I wanted to call him, tell him I was sorry, but I doubted he would reciprocate.

Oswald had yet to make me choose between Jim and him, but I felt like I was in the middle of a tug of war. I wanted to be there for Jim, to be the good sister, and help him when he needed it. But it seemed to backfire on me. At some point, Jim would have to stop nagging me about my love life, my criminal background, and just learn to accept what would never change.

I stared a hole into the television, blinking back to reality when the news anchor reported that a witness had stepped forth and stated that the evidence planted on Flass had been falsified.

Tomas, dressed in his usual gray Armani suit, stepped forward in my peripheral vision. His hands were clasped in front of him, eyes forward as he digested the same information, watching the news. He nervously observed me as though I might spontaneously combust.

But I didn't.

After all, it didn't upset _my_ plans that Flass had been vindicated. Did it demonstrate just how corrupt the legal system was—oh definitely, but I had known this would happen. Flass was protected. I was surprised that it had even gotten this far.

For the better part of the day, I felt off. The argument with Jim in general had set me off in a way I couldn't understand. When I woke up this morning, I felt as though there was an angry rabid dog inside, trying to burrow through my emotions. Release the hellhound, as they say. Because of my inexplicable irritability, I said little to Oswald or Tomas.

The television offered bad news, but nothing I didn't already expect.

"You're not yelling…" Tomas noted.

I turned my attention to him: "Should I be?"

"Detective Flass was let go."

"So he was. I expected as much."

"Have you heard from your brother?"

"No."

Tomas scoffed, "You're not going to call him—make sure he's okay?"

"No," I said icily. "I am not."

He muttered under his breath, "What an icy bitch."

I glanced at the television and then back at Tomas, who was watching me with a look of judgment. Did he mean that in the way I felt he did? And if he did, how could he know what I was feeling, what I was thinking, and the arguments that happened between my brother and me? Evidently, he was having a bit of an irritable moment himself.

Whatever his curiosity, I didn't much care for the standoffish tone. I lifted my legs off the coffee table, tucking them underneath me.

"Have a seat, Tomas." I offered, patting the cushion beside me on the couch.

Hesitantly, he did as I asked. I handed him the remote.

"Now switch it to something you enjoy."

"Is there a point you're trying to make?"

"No point. Just do as I ask. Please."

He grunted a small cough inside his throat cautiously, then turned his head to the television. While sitting on the edge of his seat, he flipped through the channels, glancing at me occasionally as I watched him like a hawk. His forehead began to glisten with perspiration; he kept his legs together rather than apart as he would normally do when he was relaxed. His thumb lifted off the remote, and he'd stopped flipping through the TV guide—on the TV was a cooking channel with a morbidly obese chef explaining how to tenderize a steak.

"Will this do?" Tomas asked, looking sideways at me.

"Why are you asking me? I told you to find something _you_ want to watch."

"Well, I don't want to sound rude, but I still feel like you're trying to prove a point." Tomas insisted, placing the remote stiffly on the coffee table.

"Am I making you nervous?"

He admitted, "You're just really, _really_ calm. It's a little unsettling."

I folded my arms on my lap and shifted so my bare feet now touched the carpet. He blinked faster than usual; even swallowing seemed difficult for him.

"That's not what I asked."

"Yes. You're making me nervous," Tomas said finally.

"Good. I am glad I can still make you nervous. And for what it is worth, I lied: I was making a point. Your being nervous around me is _precisely_ my point. The relationship with my brother is my business alone—if I want to call him, I will do so without anyone's suggestion or approval, including yours."

"I was only offering—"

"I appreciate the candor," I stated curtly. "But you're forgetting your place."

"My place?"

"You may live under my roof, and we may have candid discussions about your life and mine, but we are _not_ friends."

"Never said we were."

I continued as if he hadn't said anything: "So, when you speak to me, you will do so with respect and _without_ judgment."

"Ma'am, I think you have some misgivings about my intentions…"

"And what were your intentions?"

"Your brother—"

"You asked whether or not I heard from Detective Gordon. I said 'no'—"

"No offense, Ma'am, but you're acting a little rude—"

"Me, acting rude? Oh…So, what if I am?" I questioned, standing to my feet. "Am I being an 'icy bitch' again?"

His jaw quirked a little, and he looked at me, dumb founded. As if I hadn't heard him.

"That's right. I'm not deaf," I said curtly. "But by all means, if you think I'm rude—"

He rose to his feet as well, standing a good foot taller than myself. If he had known what was good for him, he would have remained seated. His height difference only made me want to put him down on his knees.

"You're looking to pick a fight," I challenged. "Sit your ass back down, or so help me."

He remained standing, staring me down.

"I've had a _long week_ , Tomas. Think this through." I said coldly.

He glanced at the couch, like he might submit. Instead, he defiantly raised his chin, so it appeared as though he was standing taller.

"Okay," I said, smirking. "You think I'm being rude? Think I'm being a bitch. Fine. I want you to punch the rudeness out of me."

"You're five feet tall and 130 pounds." Tomas dared to point out. "I'm six-foot and I weigh twice as much as you do."

"You're so ignorant if you think that matters."

"I don't know what you're trying to prove but you're not going to win if we fight. I mean, I have a gun—"

" _Fight me anyway_!" I ordered.

"It'd be unfair—"

"I said do it!"

He balled his fist like he might. A knee-jerk reaction, probably, but goddamn it. I felt it inside coming out, so I popped him in the mouth. He rubbed his jaw, almost like he'd been slapped instead of being punched, and he gave me a look.

"I don't want to fight you," Tomas resigned quickly.

I popped him again, and he came right back with a smack. If it'd been any harder, I might've gone down.

"Okay. Now we're even!"

"Oh, we are _way_ beyond that. You and I are going to settle a disagreement the Gordon way." I told him, grinning. "Now, put your hands up, and hit me back."

"I've already hit you twice."

"I don't care."

"Penguin might."

"Come on!" I goaded.

"Penguin wouldn't allow this—"

" _Penguin_ isn't here. I said 'fight me' goddamn it!"

Irritation had turned quickly to rage. The rabid dog had been released, and it was hard to pull it back. If I had not been so angry, I would have laughed if I stood outside the box: I was wearing nothing more than a pair of black booty shorts and a gray nightshirt, holding up my hands to a man who easily saw over my head.

"Ma'am, I beg of you…" Tomas insisted, holding back.

"That's right," I taunted. " _Beg_. That's even better."

Tomas dodged out of the way when I tried to hit him. He hopped onto the couch, and lifted a leg over the back so as to leap away from my swing.

"Okay, so you've had some disagreements with your brother—I'm sorry to hear that, but there must be a better" (He dodged my blow) "way of handling your anger issues than attacking your subordinates. We can talk about this, Miss Gordon, but you gotta stop—"

I struck the ball of my foot against his shin. He grunted.

"You know what's really infuriating?" I questioned as I strode to the kitchen. "It's when your brother and your boyfriend don't get along" (I grabbed a pan from the cabinet, and came back to him in the living room) "And they're both in competition with each other and **I** "(I hit Tomas' shoulder with the frying pan) " **AM STUCK** " (I struck the back of his neck) " **IN THE MIDDLE OF IT**!"

"Miss Gordon, stop!"

"Get the _fuck_ up—you're supposed to be my fucking guard and you're getting your ass beat!" I snarled, nudging my foot against his ribs.

"I'm not going to fight you—"

"Well, you better call your lawyer and draw up your will, because I'm sure as shit not going to stop until you **put** " (I kicked his ribs once) " **ME** " (twice) " **DOWN**!"

Tomas groaned, and moved to all fours, trying to crawl away.

"What is this—amateur hour?"

"If I hurt you, Penguin will kill me!" Tomas cried.

"If you don't fight back, _I_ will kill you!" I shouted furiously.

"You're crazy!"

"Where the hell are you crawling off to!" I demanded.

I twisted the pan handle in my hand, gripping it tightly as I stormed after the crawling guard.

"A minute ago, you were ready to square off! Don't have the muscle to support your chops? You're going to act like a girl, let's hear you scream like one."

He screamed when I grabbed his mess of gelled hair; I kicked my foot between his legs, striking him square in the balls, and he squealed like a pig—goddamn, did that feel good! —When he was down, I just threw all my strength into hitting any body part I could reach. He thrashed underneath, screaming and crying.

All I saw was red. My vision blurred, and it wasn't until I felt my cheeks burn that I realized I was crying.

I knew and understood why, but at the same time, I wasn't sure. Objectivity and reading people were skills I'd acquired from being raised by my father, and just prowling Gotham's streets. But it was difficult when I tried aiming it at myself. And maybe, I didn't want to!

I wanted to be there for Jim, just as I was always there by Oswald's side. It pissed me off that Jim would just use Oswald like he did, and then pretend that he was better than me. Or Oswald.

"You're not better than me." Hearing myself say it just pissed me off more. " _You're not better than me_!"

"I'm not saying anything!" Tomas screamed. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry—please!"

"FIGHT BACK!" I bellowed. "FUCKING **HIT** ME!"

I shoved his face into the carpet and stood to my feet. My chest heaved up and down, my breathing, erratic. I rubbed my tear-stained face with the back of my hand, sniffling as I watched a giant like Tomas shrivel to the size of a fetus.

And I saw the damage I had done.

I'd broken his nose; it was bleeding profusely, the blood oozing into his open mouth as he sobbed; it drizzled onto the navy-blue carpet, staining it. His suit was disheveled, much like the untidy mess of hair; some of it fell into his face, matting to his forehead.

"A bodyguard," I scoffed, throwing the frying pan onto the kitchen table—it clattered with a 'clang'. "What good are you protecting anyone when you can't even protect _yourself_?"

Tomas unsteadily shifted to his knees as he looked at me.

"You're angry—I get it…with your brother—the treatment he's done to the both of you," He sobbed. "And with what happened with Maroni's men in the office…"

I glared at him: "How the hell would you know how I feel about any of that?"

"I don't, I don't—but please, hear me out," Tomas pleaded, holding his hands up in front of him. "You're f-fighting me to get some retribution for what happened with Maroni's men…you want to get that control back, even when you're not—"

"I **am** in _fucking_ control!"

"That's why you're taking out your anger on me?" Tomas whispered. "I'm-I'm an easy target."

"An easy target? _What_ makes you an 'easy target'? You're a foot taller than me and you weigh more than I do—you said so yourself."

"I'm your bodyguard, hired by Penguin. I can't hurt you even if I wanted to."

"'Even if you wanted to'?" I repeated darkly.

I approached him. He fearfully met my eyes.

"I just kicked your ass from the living room to the hallway with a fucking _frying pan_. You threw a few good punches but didn't hurt me. You couldn't hurt me _even_ if you tried. You're a waste of space, a pathetic loser. You're worthless, and you're _nothing_."

Tomas frowned and said quietly, "That's what you tell yourself, isn't it? You don't want to think that about yourself, but it's true, isn't it?"

"I should put a bullet between your eyes _right_ now for saying that to me," I threatened.

He couldn't even stutter a response. He put his hands together and bowed in front of me. His hands touched my feet; he kissed the back of them for mercy, begging for my forgiveness.

Seeing him like this…

_Fish made Oswald kiss_ her _feet and beg for her forgiveness…_

I was treating Tomas like Fish had treated Oswald.

I suddenly had this sudden need to throw up. My stomach tossed and turned unpleasantly, and I could feel it moving up to my throat.

He looked up at me.

"Get up." I whispered—I placed my hand on my stomach to calm the queasy feeling— "Go to the bathroom, clean yourself up."

"You're not going to kill me?"

"No." I muttered, shaking my head slowly. "Please…go do as I ask."

Confused, he nodded and stumbled into the bathroom. I staggered into the kitchen, throwing my head over the sink as I started gagging.

_You're worthless._ The hateful thoughts were back again. Always, they were there, stirring, but now they were coming full force. _You're nothing._

_You hurt the people that swore to protect you._ Tomas...

_You're no better than your brother…Fucking hypocrite._ No, I'm not—

_Worthless. Nothing._

I grabbed the edge of the counter. Nothing was coming out. I just kept gagging. _You're not in control. You never will be._

_Fuck_ you, I am in control…

"I _am_ in control," I chanted like it was a mantra, hoping the self-affirmations would take hold, but the gagging wouldn't stop. "I am in control…I am…"

_You lost that control when Mack put his hands-_

"Stop…" I whimpered. "Please stop…"

I could still feel his fingers inside of me, his moans leaving his fat lips. The grating sound of his voice: " _I'm going to fuck you until you bleed…"_

"Stop, please…"

I could smell his breath and sweat

When he said, " _Then I'm going to shoot you…"_ Oh for fuck sake, please, make this stop.

I could still feel the fat head of his cock trying to make its way between my legs. His hands on my breasts, groping—his fat ass on my knees, keeping me pinned.

"Sylvia…"

A pair of hands touched my shoulders. I reeled back and elbowed whoever it was in their stomach. I quickly turned and saw Oswald groaning, holding his side. The front door was open until Butch, who had strolled inside shortly after checking both ends of the hall, closed it. I looked down at Oswald.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"

Oswald straightened, and smiled (albeit in slighted pain).

"Don't worry about me," He quickly reassured. "Are you all right?"

"No," I weakly admitted, shaking my head.

My face was red; my eyes were blood shot from gagging into the sink, and my cheeks were stained with tears. He held my face in his hands, lifting it so I was urged to look into his eyes.

"Honey, look at me. Tell me what happened. Why…"

As if on cue, the bathroom door opened and Tomas stepped out, a towel wrapped around his lower half. He was sporting a black eye, the cuts on his face, and bruises were already forming on his chest and arms. Oswald took one look at him and he pulled a switchblade from his inner jacket pocket.

"What did you _do_!" Oswald demanded furiously.

He started towards Tomas who fretfully started running in the opposite direction.

"Want me to shoot him?" Butch offered.

"Yes—"

"No!" I protested.

I stood in the middle of the hallway, potentially blocking either of them from harming Tomas. Oswald looked at me, confused, and it slowly became one of suspicion.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" Oswald asked calmly, however his bubbling anger was just beneath the surface.

"He didn't do anything to me!"

"Then why does he look like… _that_ ," Oswald said, gesturing to Tomas.

"I did it."

Butch lowered his gun and said impressively, "Damn. Girl's got skill."

" _Shut up, Butch_ ," Oswald snapped, glaring at him. He turned to me: "What do you mean you did this?"

"I hit him," I explained, glancing over my shoulder to see Tomas peeping through a crack in the door. "I tried to make him fight me. He wouldn't. So, I…"

"Kicked his ass from here to Timbuktu," Butch finished humorously.

"BUTCH!" Oswald shouted, glaring at him once more. " _Go_ sit in the other room, _please._ "

Butch shrugged, unaffected, and walked in the direction of Tomas. Probably wanted to get his side of the story. Oswald took my wrist and gently pulled me into the living room; he gestured to the couch; I followed the silent order and sat down. He joined me.

"Tell me what happened," Oswald said, holding his hand out to me.

I handed him the newspaper regarding the headline of Flass' release. Oswald gave it a once-over before putting it back on the table nonchalantly.

"Is this a problem for you?" He inquired.

"Not for me." I explained shakily. "I don't know what happened…I was just so pissed off. Jim and I had an argument at the hospital…"

"When you went to see Ms. Rubberdale?"

"Yes. Jim was there, visiting a friend too."

"What was the argument about, if you don't mind me asking."

I said nothing at first, only looking at him like he wasn't really there. He took my hands into his, stroking the back of mine with his thumb.

"You can tell me anything," Oswald reassured.

"It'll sound stupid, and I…"

"Tell me anyway."

I bit my lower lip, seeing his eyes just burrow into mine. I was certain he could read my mind.

"I told him how I felt about him refusing to take your invitation to the opening of your club," I explained softly. "We had a disagreement about hypocrisy. And I…just flew off the handle."

Oswald licked his lower lip in thought, glancing at the television. He took the remote and turned it off, then looked at me pointedly.

"There's more to it, isn't there?" He asked gently.

"Oz, I don't want to make you feel bad. I'd rather not…"

"Pigeon, look at me. Tell me what you need to tell me. We'll go from there."

I looked him in the eyes, and I felt my heart grow to the point of pain.

"Jim is mad because I went to you first after the incident in the office, with Maroni's men. He thinks that because he's my brother, I should have gone to him—but I felt more comfortable talking to you. I feel like I am trapped in the middle of some war, forced to choose sides. Jim won't accept us...but...when I talk to you, I don't feel guilty for what I have done, or judged by what I feel...especially when my ideas don't line themselves up with the legal system."

Oswald nodded slowly. He placed his hands on my own, looking down at them in thought as though he was trying to find the words to explain what he wanted to say. After a moment, he met my eyes.

"You know how I feel about you, Pet," Oswald said softly. "You know there is nothing in the world I wouldn't do in order to make sure you feel safe and protected. Detective Gordon _is_ your brother...I suppose he would be entitled to your friendship, but..."

"No one is entitled to anything of mine," I interrupted more harshly than I had intended. " _I_ choose my friends. _I chose_ the path I've taken. I love Jim, but I love you too, Ozzie, and I'm trying to maintain some type of balance, but I feel like he's making me choose; it's like I am slowly being ripped apart in every fucking direction. And I am trying to _be_ there for him…"

At first, Oswald was startled by the force of my comment—my sentences were running together, and I could feel the rage bubbling from my stomach, to my chest, and ringing in my ears.

"What good has it done me so far?" I asked. "I just give, and give, and give, and all he does in return is treat me like I'm nothing…"

"I doubt that those are his intentions," Oswald defended Jim.

"And the way he treats you," I continued, glaring at a freckle on my hand. "It just pisses me off and I want to hurt him—but I don't want to hurt him, but I kind of do—like I want to hurt everyone else that has ever hurt us: Falcone, Maroni, Fish! And I'm just— **ugh**!" I let out an exasperated, shrill snarl that sounded inhumane.

I stood suddenly, looking at the emptiness of the black television then turned to Oswald.

"Ever since the event with Maroni's men, I just feel angry _all the time_." I told him, my voice breaking. "I just want to hurt them—him—someone— _anyone_."

"Is that why you attacked Tomas?"

"I didn't expect him _not_ to fight back," I responded defensively. "He's taller than me—he's stronger than I am. He was _armed_ , he had a **gun** for crying out loud. He could have done anything he wanted to me!"

"I hired him to protect you," Oswald recited firmly, standing to his feet.

"He's more afraid of you than he was of me, that's for sure," I said resentfully. "For all my wares, he was."

Then my heart fluttered unexpectedly as I smiled a little at him: "You were ready to hurt him when you thought he did something to me."

"Of course."

"You didn't even hesitate."

"If he disrespects you," He said softly. "He's disrespecting me. And I will not allow—"

I moved towards him and I pushed my mouth against his. At first, he didn't react—or maybe he was just too surprised _to_ react—but shortly after, he held my hips while I grabbed the lapels of his suit. Passion and ravenous hunger possessed me. I slipped my hand between us, and I started rubbing his cock through his pants.

"Sylvia—"

"Stop talking…"

"You're clearly not in the best emotional state right—"

" _You can't talk me out of it this time_ ," I growled.

I bit his bottom lip and raked my free hand down his back as I continued groping him between his legs. He hissed as my nails dug into his spine, but unaffected; his tongue slipped into my mouth, rubbing against my own.

I brought my lips to his ear, licking him and whispered, "I can tell how horny you're getting, Ozzie—I can feel your cock growing in my hand."

Oswald inhaled sharply as I bit his earlobe. He grabbed my hair and threw me forward.

"Get in the bedroom," Oswald ordered.

I stuck out my tongue: "Pfffft!"

I turned on my heel and ran into the bedroom. I was fired up, breathing hard already. The thought of having angry sex was already making me soaking wet; I could feel the excitement boiling within, flushing my neck, chest, and face with red heat. My back faced the doorway; I heard him come in, slamming the door. I began to turn my head.

"Eyes front, Pet."

The lights turned off suddenly. I turned around but Oswald grabbed a handful of my hair like he'd done so before and forced my head forward.

"I said 'eyes front'!"

He pulled me to him, my back against his chest.

"I've been waiting to do this since you told me about it," Oswald said huskily. "It was just a matter of finding the right time."

The darkness of the room made me feel unbalanced, like I had a glass of wine, tipsy, and dazed.

"To do what— _ah_!"

Oswald yanked my hair, my neck craned back, and my eyes darted up at the ceiling. Cold steel prodded my carotid, the point digging enough for me to gasp but not feel pain. It made me stand on my toes, instinctively trying to move away.

It was his switchblade that he held against my neck.

"Do you feel that?" Oswald asked softly.

"Yes..." I breathed.

My insides burned with sudden need. My anger receded, and the feeling of being helpless returned but not in such a way that left me feeling scared. It was almost freeing.

"Do you feel _this_ …?"

He pressed his erection between the back of my thighs, rolling his hips into my own.

"Yes."

I wished, right then, that I had been naked to feel the contrasting texture of his suit against my bare skin.

The knife slid carefully from the carotid artery of my neck down to my collar bone; his hand dipped inside my shirt, and I felt the cold blade lightly graze my right nipple, circling the hardened peak.

Oswald roughly removed his hand out of my hair (pulling strands with it) and he placed it over my throat, forcing me to keep my eyes on the ceiling. My hands moved behind me, stiffly grasping the hem of his shirt, noticing almost immediately he'd taken off his jacket prior to coming inside the bedroom.

"You like that, don't you," Oswald drawled, his breath tickled my ear, his lips flush with the bottom length of my jaw.

"No…"

"'No'?" Oswald repeated knowingly. He smirked against my ear. "I think you are lying to me, Pet."

He placed the blade just underneath the spaghetti straps of my nightshirt, his fingers growing taut over the handle. I felt the straps fall down my shoulders and dangle in shreds as he cut them; He did the same with the other strap, and my shirt fell to the floor, exposing my bare breasts and stomach to the open air.

"Don't forget to breathe." Oswald reminded, kissing my shoulder.

I suddenly exhaled sharply. I'd been so caught up in the moment, I'd done just that. I rubbed my thighs together, hoping to assuage the mild affliction between them, but it was of little help.

"Turn and look at me," He said, gesticulating with the knife.

His hand left my neck and I turned to do as he said.

"Undress me."

The only light in the room flooded through the window, the moonlight creeping through the blinds. In its glow, I could see Oswald's eyes brightly shining at me, daring me to disobey, daring me to say 'no'. When I did nothing, he took it as a turn of defiance.

He uttered dangerously, "Do you really want to know what happens if you don't?"

I bit my bottom lip. Admittedly, _yes_ , I did want to know. But I cleared my throat and submissively started unbuttoning his vest, and then his shirt. I placed them neatly at the end of the bed. Then I unbuckled his belt and pulled down his pants and boxers. He watched me, his lips parted, eyes glinting with dark pools of adoration.

"Good girl," Oswald praised. "Now, kneel down and face the bed. Away from me."

I stepped towards him. I wanted to see what he would do if I didn't obey him immediately, so I touched his lips with the pad of my thumb and then I kissed him gently. He reciprocated. I felt his hand touch my breasts, guiding from one to other, then ghosting over my stomach and between my legs. He dipped his fingers inside the front of my booty shorts, his fingers inside my underwear, rubbing my clit with two of them in slow, teasing circles.

He placed soft kisses along the crook of my neck, setting fire to my flesh as he rubbed my swollen nub between his fingers, pulling a moan from my lips. When he suddenly stopped, it left me wanting more.

"Baby, please…Don't…"

"That was a small taste of what is to come for not doing what you are told the first time. Kneel down, Pigeon. And don't make me say it again."

My legs shook as I turned from him and knelt down; I faced the bed just as he asked for me to do the first time. He moved past me and sat on the edge, naked, looking down at me, like an emperor on a throne. He leaned forward and gestured with the knife for me to come forward, clicking his tongue.

I felt my face burn with humiliation, but oh my god, was my body eating it up. I started to stand.

"No. Don't walk." Oswald said sternly.

"How the fuck am I—"

"I don't want you to walk towards me." He said, smirking. "I want you to crawl."

I let out an irritable sigh, but I did as I was told. I crawled to him, then stood on my knees as I met him between his legs. He pressed the knife underneath my neck, just along my throat.

"You know what to do," Oswald said mischievously.

While I had been looking forward to it more than ever, I still protested weakly: "I am _not_ …"

He grabbed my hair roughly. When I winced, opening my mouth in pain, he took the opportunity, and forced my mouth onto his cock. I held onto the edge of the bed as he controlled the speed and rhythm, lifting his hips while also pushing my head down. I moaned, humming so he could feel the vibrations.

" _Fuck_..." Oswald mumbled.

I dug my nails into his bare thighs, and he let out a gasp of pain which then turned into a pleasurable groan. He forced his cock deeper into my throat; I almost gagged.

"Come on, Pigeon," Oswald taunted. "I know you can take more than that."

He brushed his hands through my hair and out of my face. I glanced up at him, saw that smug little smile. I took the bait and rose to the challenge. I hollowed my cheeks, relaxed my throat, and swallowed him inch by inch.

"That's it. Yes, just like that...my good little whore…"

I was getting off on it: his profanity, his moans, his praise, and the way his voice just strained with the increase of his appetite. He shoved his cock inside my mouth one more time before pulling out, shoving me away from him.

" _Strip_ ," Oswald commanded.

I shakily stood to my feet and yanked my shorts and panties off in a single go. He grabbed my arm, pulling me back to him.

He kissed me hard; I kissed him harder. He pulled on my hair; I pulled on his. He wrapped his hand around my throat and pinned me on the bed. Seeing him above me, for all his pale complexion and the brightness of his eyes…so fucking forceful, so dominating—I wanted him—here and now.

But not without a fight.

I started thrashing against him, trying to escape.

"Stop."

Oswald chuckled, "Is that all you got?"

"You want me to scream?" I asked, momentarily breaking the fourth wall.

"I've seen you fight, Pet. I know you can do _so_ much better."

I felt the knife against my hip, and his cock between my legs, fully erect. To play it up, I shoved him away; he came right back. I kicked my legs, but he pushed them apart, rubbing his cockhead between the slit of my sex, teasing me. I let out a needy whine.

"Get off me," I panted.

Oswald seemed pleased at my acting.

"You want this just as much as I do."

"I don't—"

It was so hard to pretend I didn't; he shoved his mouth onto mine; no invitation to be given, no permission to be granted. He was taking what was his. He rubbed my clit vigorously, then slipped two fingers just along the entrance of my wet, swollen sex. I still 'tried' escaping, moving my arms and legs—it wasn't hard; I was hungry, and I needed him!

He licked my earlobe: "Is Sylvia ready?"

"N-no..."

I practically heard him purr: "I think she is."

He curled his fingers inside of me and I damn near blacked out just from the sudden surge of ecstasy that accompanied it. My back arched, my toes curled, and I whimpered when he withdrew his fingers.

I needed him—fucking _Christ_ , I needed him! He stood on his knees, putting a small amount of distance between us, knowing what it would do to me when he did.

I grinned mischievously, wrapping my fingers around his pulsing member, and stroking him. He sharply inhaled—I thought I had caught him in a weak moment, but it was a trap. He rolled me onto my stomach, and I gasped in surprise.

His hand firmly clamped over my mouth: my eyes looked straight at the headboard in front of me. The sharp edge of the knife slid slowly up my back then settled against the side of my neck. I 'struggled', and he let out a dangerous, dark chuckle that nearly froze me in place.

"Fucking cock tease."

"Mm-mm!"

He taunted me: "How do you want it, Pigeon?"

He separated my legs with his knees then pressed his weight down on top of me, pinning my arms beneath my own body. I was unable to move, unable to escape—but with him, I had never felt freer. He didn't wait for an answer; that was the point.

He slid his cock slowly into my aching sex, wedging tightly inside. The both of us moaned loudly.

"Nice and slow…" Oswald uttered lowly into my ear. "Don't fight it."

"Mmm…mmm…"

He thrust slowly inside, triggering every tender muscle, every sore, aching pressure point. My eyes grew heavy, closing as I just listened to his shallow breaths, his wanton echoes. He lowered his hand from my mouth to my neck and I was free to moan as loud as I pleased.

"Fuck, Oz…"

"You like that?" Oswald whispered. "Do you like my cock inside you..."

"Mm-hmm."

"I know _I_ do," He groaned.

I pushed my hips against him, and he snickered at my impatience. He kissed, nibbling, and licking where he bit. I let out a sharp, frustrated keen.

"Harder," I begged.

"What was that?"

"Fuck me _harder_."

"Is that what you really want?"

"I need it, baby, _please_ ," I whined. "Make it _hurt_."

Oswald said roughly, "You have _no_ idea what you're asking me to do."

"I do!" I snapped, feeling the familiar sudden rage rise to the surface. "Now _fuck_ me like you **hate** me, goddamn it!"

I wiggled my arms out from beneath my body and flung my hands up behind my head; one slapped his face. I even felt the sting within my palm. I thought I might have crossed a boundary there, but I was surprised when he shoved my face into the mattress, forced my wrists behind my back, and kept them there, restraining me.

"Scream for me," He demanded before he rammed himself deep inside of me; I cried out.

He fucked me hard and fast; My knuckles clenched, turning white. Pain mixed with pleasure, shooting through every finger, every toe, and festering deep inside my stomach. He grabbed a handful of my hair, keeping my head down on the mattress as he rolled his hips into mine, plunging deeper—the knife was forgotten in the sheets. He released my arms in favor of digging his fingers into my hip, holding me firmly against him.

The bed creaked with the movement, the headboard ricocheting and slamming against the wall.

"Yes! Oh my god, _yes_ …! Fuck!" My high-pitched scream became lost in my gasp, my desperation for release, and need for more pain.

He raked his nails down my front, clawing my breasts and stomach, then my back; and I moaned aloud in delight. Oswald wrapped one hand around my neck, and pressed down on my carotids, avoiding my airway. My breaths became short and hallow, the blood pounding inside my forehead; my ears were ringing, but I could still hear Oswald's unrestrained grunts and groans as he thrust in and out of me.

He let go of my wrists as he pressed his weight onto my own body to keep me pinned; his arms braced on either side of me; I clenched the bed sheets desperately, smiling a little when his hands lied on the back of my hands; his fingers interlaced between mine. This subtle loving gesture in amidst this animalistic scourge.

My insides burst, throwing my body into a titillating convulsion. Oswald pulled out of me and moved me on my back. He separated my legs with an effort as they were trying to close on their own accord. He pinned my arms down and above my head, just as he shoved his cock inside my pussy, feeling every vibration, every seizing muscle holding desperately onto him.

He kissed my collar bone, right above where Fish had left her mark. And then he replaced it with his.

Oswald bit me, his teeth broke the skin. I let out a painful moan, but I barely could feel it for save the sharp pain before it all dulled into one tantalizing pleasurable wave. My response was what finally tilted him over the edge, and he stopped moving for only a few seconds, releasing himself inside of me.

Panting, hot, and sweaty, he lied on top of me for a few minutes as our breathing slowly returned to normal. He kissed my forehead, and I beamed up at him.

He groaned sorely as he moved on his back, mirroring me, sighing in content: "You're something else."

"Am I now?" I said, smirking at him. "I'm your partner-in-crime, literally…your lover and fiancée…What else could I be?"

"You are the human embodiment of a hurricane," Oswald said, smirking at me.

I kissed him tenderly on the lips; he returned it. As he did, I whispered, "And don't you forget it."

**Chapter 17: Barbara Feels Awkward**

The last time I saw Barbara, she went out of town to get herself together. I figured a friendly face was what she needed after everything that had happened with Zsasz—and the fact that Jim was seeing Lee Thompkins.

I brought lunch, holding two salads in one hand, using the other to knock on the door, no one answered.

"Barbara, it's me!" I called.

The sound of movement came from behind the door. Then after a pause, it opened. She stood in the doorway, wearing a satin white robe over same colored shorts and shirt. She looked as though she might have just woken up from a long cat nap, or just slept in until the afternoon.

"Hey," I greeted. "I heard you were back in town, so…." (I held up the salads) "I brought lunch."

Barbara smiled a little, but she wasn't the same bright and chirpy woman. So far, she hadn't said a word. However, she stepped to the side, allowing my entry. When I came into the living room, I was startled to see that she was entertaining guests; namely, two children.

One was redheaded, the other had curly hair. Both looked as though they had come from living on the streets.

I glanced at Barbara: "I didn't know you had company, I could come back another time,"

"No, don't worry," said Barbara, forcing a smile. "They kind of live with me. Ladies," (She addressed them) "This is Sylvia, Jim Gordon's sister. Sylvia…. this is Ivy Pepper, and Selina Kyle."

Ivy Pepper didn't so much as acknowledge my presence—I didn't think she would. My brother and Harvey practically framed and killed her father. Hearing that I was in any relationship to Jim, the idea of friendship was quickly out the door.

Selina Kyle reminded me of a black cat. She was perched on the couch, feet tucked underneath her, and her eyes bore through mine, sizing me up. I waved at them nonchalantly; they didn't wave back. I cleared my throat, looking at Barbara pointedly.

"We can talk in the kitchen."

I followed her into the room, placing the salads on the table. She refilled her glass with vodka.

"So," She said listlessly. "How have you been?"

"Fine. How are you?"

"Fine." Barbara answered stoically. She took a sip from her glass, staring into it. "How's Jim?"

"Last I heard from him; he was doing all right. Otherwise, I don't know," I answered honestly. "He and I haven't spoken in a week or so."

"That doesn't sound like you two," Barbara noted, looking at me over the rim of her drink.

"We had an argument," I said, waving my hand to the air dismissively. "I'm right; he's wrong. He won't admit he's wrong, and he won't apologize. And I am petty enough these days that I won't call and apologize either."

Barbara sat her glass down on the table gingerly and started opening her salad. She was definitely in a slump, the way she sluggishly moved. She looked at me indicatively, as I observed her.

"Is my company making you feel awkward?" I asked gently. "Because of the circumstance?"

"Awkward? No! No…Of…Of course not! Don't be silly!"

"No?" I repeated.

She smiled guiltily, admitting, "Okay. Maybe just a little."

"Do you want me to go?"

"No. You're already here and, anyway, it's nice seeing a familiar face."

She stood, moving to the refrigerator and took out a gallon of iced tea, a bottle of ranch dressing, and from the drawer, she withdrew two forks and napkins. All of these items, she placed on the table in front of us. Before sitting down, she placed a glass in front of me wordlessly.

For the longest time, we didn't speak. We just ate salad. It seemed like hours, but in real time, it had only been thirty minutes. Still, in retrospect, it was a long time to go without saying anything.

"I never thanked you properly," Barbara broke the silence, looking at me.

"For?"

"For coming to protect me. When that thing happened with Zsasz and Falcone, you came to protect me, and I never thanked you."

"You don't need to. What is family for, you know?"

"I felt bad when those people hurt you," She continued, slowly chewing on a crouton.

"Sticks and stones," I reassured. "In time, everything heals."

"Does it?"

"It doesn't seem like it. But it does. Every day, you hurt a little less—and I'm not just talking about broken bones."

Barbara frowned.

"Jim found someone else," She whispered, glancing sadly at me. "I saw him kissing her in the locker room."

"Did you tell him?"

"No. I just left. What could I have said?"

I couldn't answer the question. She finished her salad, and drank a whole glass of tea. I did the same.

"So, who are the kids?" I asked, gesturing to the living room.

"They were living here while I was gone," said Barbara humorously. "I came home; they were here. I don't mind the company. They normally come and go as they please."

"Well, at least you're socializing. That's a step in the right direction."

Barbara smiled in spite of herself, saying, "Speaking of socializing, I was wondering if you wanted to be my plus one to this charity gala."

"Interesting segue," I noted.

Barbara strode into the living room suddenly then came back to the kitchen, placing an invitation in front of me. It was addressed to her.

"You're going to this?" I asked incredulously.

"It's good for the gallery," Barbara explained.

"What day of the week does this fall on?"

"A Friday."

I placed the invitation in front of her as she sat down: " I would but I have a prior engagement."

"Where?"

"At 'Oswald's'. I sing there on Friday evenings."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise: "I didn't know you sang."

"I can. It has just taken several years for me to find my way out of a dark hole. I only sing a few songs, then I hunker down for the next six days in my wonderful cozy comfort zone."

"Sounds like you're doing well," said Barbara, smiling. "I'm glad."

"Are you really?" I asked, reclining back in my seat.

Barbara blinked; she appeared taken aback. Her stony expression didn't go unnoticed by me. Her voice was monotonous, depressed. I didn't expect anything different from a woman who had been through what she'd gone through, only to come back home and realize that her love life had fallen apart while she had been away.

My success as an entertainer (half-comedic, half-singer) had only seemed to harden her expression. Seeing as I called her out on it, Barbara cleared her throat uncomfortably, shifting as such in her chair.

"We have history, you and me," Barbara said quietly. "You have always been there for me when I needed you—you sacrificed your well-being so you could keep me safe from people like Falcone."

"You're beating around the bush. What are you really wanting to say?"

Barbara met my eyes: "You have no idea how I feel."

"I'm pretty sure I can guess," I protested lightly. "You left Gotham to put your priorities in check, to get your life together. Then when you come back home, you realize that your love life has been falling apart. You went to live with your parents for a while, right?"

Barbara frowned, and once more the hardened expression returned.

"How did that work out for you?" I asked.

"Not well. They let me stay but...it's like talking to a wall when it comes to them. They just hear me; they don't listen."

"Well, then talk to me," I offered, holding my hand out to her encouragingly. "I'll listen."

"You were right," Barbara admitted suddenly, looking at me coolly. "It _is_ awkward. You're Jim's sister."

"You want to go on a man-bashing rant, I'll go along with you." I said with a smirk. "You can tell me how much Jim sucks; I will pour us wine, we'll give toast to the terrible things our exes have done to us in the past, and we'll go from there. Just because you're not with Jim doesn't mean our friendship changes."

Barbara sighed, "I wish that were true."

I interlaced my fingers together on the table. She looked at me apologetically, like she didn't want to do what I was certain she would. She wanted to cut off ties, to end what we had due to the awkwardness of Jim now being her ex. I couldn't blame her, really. But I would be lying if I denied I wasn't a little hurt by it.

"If my company makes you feel awkward, then why on earth would you ask me to go to this charity ball as your plus-one?"

"It was a thought," muttered Barbara.

"An ice breaker?"

"I know, it was stupid. I'm sorry."

I stood, wiped my mouth with the napkin provided and threw my salad in the trash. I placed my hands on the back of the chair, scooting it under the table. She watched me reproachfully; the way she looked at me, it's like I might as well had slapped her with a phone book.

"You'll cut ties with me so my presence doesn't remind you of Jim," I told her gently, "so you can try and mend your broken heart. That's fine; I understand. But just so you know, if you need to talk to someone, I'm only a phone call away."

"Thanks," She whispered.

"Any time," I responded sincerely.

"Thanks for lunch."

"Again—anytime."

I walked into the living room; the girls looked at me curiously. I didn't bother telling them bye; I was certain they wouldn't say it back.

Tiffany was my one-woman barmaid. She had a knack for mixing drinks, and she kept tabs of everyone who had more than enough drinks for the evening before cutting them off. Since being released from the hospital, it was as though the car accident had made her more assertive, more confident in her own skin.

I strode into the club, thinking of Barbara and how she would cope with the break-up. Tiffany pulled me out of my reverie as she waved at me. Noticing her, I sat at a pew in front of her.

"You're looking better!"

"So much better," Tiffany answered happily. "Thanks again for giving me this job; I've never been happier."

"Who knew anyone would be happy enough to be a bartender," I said incredulously, watching her move about with such grace.

She sincerely looked happy.

"How's everything in general?" I asked.

"It's been steady. Not much has been going on. Not one fight has broken out though; I'm kind of surprised. When you said that there were gangsters here, I thought maybe I'd be able to see a little rough-housing from time to time."

"Give it time. Wait for the holidays."

"That'll be fun, I bet."

"Most likely. Have you seen Penguin?"

Tiffany lifted her eyes over my shoulder; I followed her gaze.

Oswald was sitting at a table, admiring a bottle of Madre Di Dios. I came up from behind him, rubbing his shoulder; he glanced up, smiling when he saw me, and we kissed briefly before I took a seat in front of him.

"Do I even want to know?" I asked, gesturing to the bottle.

Secretively, Oswald replied, " _Do_ you, though?"

I was just about to inquire before he looked over my shoulder; I turned in my seat and couldn't help but roll my eyes when I saw Jim and Harvey strolling into the room. Contrary to my mood, Oswald had a different approach; he stood, meeting them.

"Gentlemen," He greeted politely. "So nice to see you. What can I do for you?"

"Good afternoon, Penguin," Jim greeted just as politely, then seeing me, he nodded, "Vee."

"Long time, no see," I returned coolly.

Oswald gestured for Jim to sit; I scooted my chair to make room for him.

"We need help finding out what Commissioner Loeb is hiding," Jim stated factually.

"Straight to the point," I said, placing my chin in my hand. "Why would I expect anything different?"

Oswald didn't hide the sly smile that came from my sarcastic comment. However, he did acknowledge Jim's request.

"You do realize what you are asking me to do? If Don Falcone is working with Commissioner Loeb to keep this trove of secrets hidden and I help you uncover them...I would be betraying my patron," Oswald said calmly.

"That's right," Jim acknowledged the risk.

"If he found out," Oswald continued, "he would be very angry, to say the least."

Harvey interrupted impatiently, "Enough with the heming and hawing, are you gonna help us or _not_?"

Oswald seemed to tighten the hold of his patience whereas I wanted to cluck Harvey in the face for using that sort of tone. After all, they'd come here asking for _his_ help—not the other way around.

"Let's say for argument sake, I could help you," said Oswald hypothetically. "What's in it for me?"

"You're fucking his sister," Harvey interjected cynically, "that's not enough?"

Jim looked at Harvey with a major expression of 'what the fuck', and I mirrored him. Oswald looked just as surprised with the outburst.

"What?" Harvey questioned carelessly. "He _is_."

" _Wow_ ," I muttered, getting to my feet. "I can obviously see that the _men_ are talking, so I'm just going to leave now before I get the urge to punch a certain someone in the face. Excuse me!"

I patted Oswald on his forearm, glared at Jim and Harvey, and then headed up on the stage to make sure the performers of the night had everything they needed.

It looked like it was going to be something of a magic show with two women dressed in risqué black and gray shimmering costumes; the magician (if one called him that) wore a pink and lilac suit. On an end table was a curious box and he was sticking half-swords through the top and it would slide through the bottom. I didn't dare imagine what would be inside the box. I figured I would keep all of that a mystery.

After speaking to the magician, he said all they would need was for someone to dim the lights. 'All part of the illusion', they said. Who was I to disagree with them?

I hopped off the stage, catching Henry on the way.

"How's the shift looking tonight?" I asked.

"We're down one person. Rick isn't coming."

"Rick..."

"The other waiter," Henry reminded.

"Did he say why?"

"No... but he called and said he just wasn't coming in. Sounded like he was sick on the phone," Henry informed, rolling his eyes. "Bet you he's just hung over—it wouldn't be the first time this week."

"Thanks for telling me. Anything else?"

"No," He said, shaking his head. "Everything else has been pretty calm around here."

If everything went according to plan, we would have a nice, easy night. But in Gotham, did things ever really go according to plan—I mean, seriously.

Henry bowed slightly in my direction after I dismissed him; I heard footsteps approaching, and I turned to see Oswald.

Jim and Harvey were waiting by the front door.

"Are they kidnapping you?" I asked, half-serious.

"We're taking a little road trip, shouldn't take long," Oswald informed softly.

"You're going to help them? What if Falcone finds out?"

"Not to worry, I have it all taken care of," Oswald reassured, swiftly kissing my cheek. "I'll be back before a little after nightfall."

He left shortly, following my brother and Harvey out the door.

At least I knew who I'd be going to if he didn't come back.

**Chapter 18: Maroni Is A Bastard**

The last time Jim and I had an actual discussion was back at the hospital. Even after Oswald helped him uncover what Commissioner Loeb was hiding (whatever that was), I hadn't heard from my brother for several days. I could have been the bigger person, called him up, and told him that this whole stupid fight was petty…but unfortunately, he and I shared the same Gordon DNA and I was just as stubborn.

Despite the sibling rivalry, I noticed just how easier my life was without Jim butting into everything I was doing. Normally, he would question my antics, what I was doing, where I was going, and it would unnerve me. Without him being so concerned, I wasn't sure if this was better.

He wasn't the focus of my life, thankfully. Otherwise, it would have driven me bat shit crazy.

From Monday to Friday, I worked among the staff, filling in for shifts as a waitress or bartender, and I sang on Friday evenings. Every now and then, Oswald would depart from the club, leaving me in charge.

He left the other day, saying that he needed to speak to a barmaid about obtaining her diner, operating strictly as a silent partner. Gabe had gone with Oswald to this specific diner; according to him, it wasn't worth a nickel.

The club was open, and we were running relatively steady.

Oswald's mother, Gertrud, visited the club, and she was doing her little swaying dance to the siren's song. She at least stood out of ear shot. I kept my eye on her just in case someone tried to hit on Mama Cobblepot. Let's see someone try to put the moves on her while _I_ was on guard.

"I'd just go along with it, Gabriel," I said carelessly as I placed a bottle of beer in front of him.

"This diner isn't going to make any money."

"Does it look _that_ bad?" I giggled, sitting across from him at the table.

"It's like something you'd see from that movie, 'Road House'. Only worse," Gabe muttered; he twisted and popped off the cap of his beer, took a long swig, and sat it down none too gently (Not that he was angry; he was just a big guy).

"Dingy, huh?"

"Yeah. It's been fun though."

"How so?"

"This girl," He laughed. "The barmaid's daughter...she got swept off her feet by some guitar player. Won't come home. Barmaid ain't interested in money—she wants the kid back home. So, Boss and me, we find the guy, tie him up, and Boss tells me to cut his fingers off."

"Sound about right," I stated, unaffected by this. "Guitar player without fingers doesn't have much to offer a classy woman."

"Did he tell you why he wants the diner?" asked Gabe mysteriously.

"One can only guess."

"He said he's gonna kill Maroni in that diner."

"He's always been ambitious."

"You're not worried?"

I quirked an eyebrow and leaned forward saying, "Should I be?"

Gabe chuckled, "You know, most of the fellas here can't understand why you're so calm all the time. You just go along with whatever the Boss does, don't you?"

"Pretty much."

"Does it bother you?"

"Does _what_ bother me?"

"Him being out all the time," Gabe said gingerly. "You're pretty much running this night club by yourself, what with him running around and plotting against the bigger bosses."

I smirked, and sat back in my chair: "Gabe, are you implying the possibility of whether or not I get lonely?"

He shrugged, preferring to neither confirm nor deny it. I drank from my glass of sweet tea, running my tongue across my teeth.

"Why are you asking these questions?"

Gabe shrugged one shoulder, tapping the surface of the table with his fingertips to a tune that I didn't recognize as he said, "Just curious. I was thinking the other day—I don't know much about you. We've worked together for Maroni—"

"— _You_ worked for Maroni," I reminded. "I never claimed to be working for that hothead. Besides what is there to know?"

"I don't know. Like the small things…"

"For example?"

"What's your favorite color?"

"Purple," I answered without hesitation. "What's yours?"

"Red," Gabe replied with a small smile.

"There," I said, tapping the table. "Now _you_ know something about me. And _I_ know something about you. We're just bonding a little closer every day."

I watched as several people came into the club. Most of them were partnered up with someone; no one seemed to come to this place alone, and if they did, they had every intention of not leaving the club the same way.

A woman in a bright shiny, glittering white dress stood at the center stage, singing some odd lullaby. The red spotlights hanging above the stage brightened; and a disco ball above my head swiveled slowly. Refracted light bounced on and off the walls. After the newcomers ordered their drinks, some slow danced in the middle of the floor.

"Looks like things are picking up," Gabe said nonchalantly.

"Looks like it," I agreed.

An Irishman wearing a light brown suede jacket approached the table. He didn't seem like he had come over to have a little chat; it looked like he had something to say. I stood to my feet, smiling politely.

"I have a meeting with Penguin," He stated gruffly.

"Well, good for you," I greeted sarcastically. "Do you want a gold star?"

He sent me an odd look like it was the worst thing ever that I didn't know who he was (and I didn't), then he appeared offended when I still didn't recognize him. Within seconds of us meeting, Oswald popped up from behind me, his hand on the small of my back.

I gesticulated to the grumpy man in front of me, "Oz, is this a friend of yours?"

"A business associate," He corrected kindly. "And not a second too late. Punctual as ever!"

"Businessman with a suitcase or businessman with a gun?"

"The latter," Oswald replied shortly.

"Go figure," I said, glaring at the Irishman. "A businessman with a suitcase would have learned some fucking manners."

Oswald gestured for the Irishman to step to the side so they could speak; after a minute or two, Oswald pointed to the balcony above where they would be able to speak more privately. The man in question nodded and then went about his merry way, heading up to the balcony.

I looked at Oswald expectantly: "Do I want to know?"

"I'll explain later," He promised.

"Mmm."

He caressed my cheek before he kissed me. Shortly after, he was pulled to the side by his mother.

"You promised you'd dance with me," Gertrud reminded happily.

"And I will, just as soon as I finish with that gentleman up there."

"Who knew running a nightclub would be so much work!"

She let him off the hook.

He then met with the Irishman, who was eyeing me from the balcony. I met his gaze, unblinkingly. After a moment, the man dropped the stare and looked elsewhere. I smirked at Gabe, who pretended not to smile.

My phone started vibrating. I stood and pulled it out of the back pocket of my jeans.

"I better take this," I told Gabe; he nodded, and waved his hands for me to go ahead.

I slipped out of the club, standing in the back-alley way. It smelled like rainwater and sewage outside, but it was a lot quieter out here than in there.

I answered the phone: "Jim, you better have a _damn_ good reason for calling me after not talking to me for days!"

"Sylvia, don't talk. _Listen_."

There was that worried sound in his voice; the angry protective growl was all too recognizable.

"For once—" I began furiously, but he cut me off.

"Vee, I said _listen_. Your life is in danger, you need to get out of Gotham."

"My life is always in danger," I muttered more to myself than anyone in particular. "What makes this time any different?"

"Where are you right now?"

"I'm at the club—where else would I be? Why?"

"You need to go home," Jim instructed firmly, "pack what you need for a few weeks, grab the first train out of Gotham, and stay gone until all of this is over."

"Until _what_ is over? What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?"

"I've been investigating this serial killer...They call him the Don Juan Killer, the Ogre—he kills the loved ones of any cop that investigates him."

"Then shouldn't you be protecting Lee?" I reminded him callously.

"She's not leaving town."

"Well, neither am I."

"Vee—"

" _No_ , James," I retorted harshly. "I am _not_ leaving Gotham. This serial killer isn't even going to _dare_ touch me. Now, if it makes you feel any better, I will go home where I am not in the open and easily accessible, but I am _not_ leaving."

I started walking out of the alley, heading to my car.

"Avoid any dark cars—he drives one."

"This is Gotham," I said sardonically, "everyone has a fucking dark-colored car; the only vehicles that aren't dark is the weird ice cream truck with tinted windows that has a tear-stained mattress in the back."

I sat in the driver's seat, locking my doors just in case someone was to pop up and tell me they were this Ogre.

"I'm glad you're finding humor in this," Jim said sarcastically.

"You don't speak to me for _days_. And the first time you talk to me after all this time is to tell me that my life is in danger. I'd keep the judgment out of your tone if I were you. Speaking of which, apology accepted… _jackass_."

"Just get home, lock the doors. Make sure you stay there, at least for the night."

"I have a life outside of your mayhem, you know."

"Just do as I say, please?"

"Fine," I sighed heavily. "I'm going, I'm going. Do you want me to call you later or…"?

"Just get home, Vee."

"Will do."

"Vee!"

"I'm still here, no need to yell," I chided. "At this rate, my ears will go long before _I_ do."

"I _am_ sorry," Jim said softly. "I should have apologized before, but…anyway, I love you. I just want you to be safe."

"Wow, it only took a serial killer to get you to admit when you're wrong," I snickered. "I'm going now. I love you too."

We hung up. I started the car and headed back home. I figured Oswald would put two-and-two together when I didn't come back from talking on the phone. It seemed customary that he would be privy to my coming and going whenever Jim was a part of my life.

Per my agreement with my wonderful, protective brother, I locked all the doors and windows. Tomas had long since been gone—he couldn't face me after getting his ass kicked and I felt guilty for having taken my anger and self-loathing out on him. With Oswald's life pardoned and the agreement settled between Falcone and Maroni, it was safe to assume that as far as _my_ life was concerned, Maroni would spare mine as well. So there hadn't been a need to replace the guard. But just when I thought the chaos was over, this Ogre guy had to start making threats.

Assuming he was even aware that Jim _had_ a sister. He seemed to keep that fact of his life under lock and key.

I sat on the couch, watching the news with the curtains drawn and the blinds closed. I thought the days of hunkering down inside my home had ended when my father died in the car accident, but then Jim became a police officer and it had started all over again. Hiding from the gangsters, hiding from the murderers and rapists—after a while, it all became mundane.

Three hours had passed since I had left the club. My phone started ringing and it nearly gave me a heart attack. I answered on the third ring: "Hey."

Jim's voice returned: "Hey back. Are you home?"

"Of course," I responded casually. "Just, you know, waiting for the apocalypse."

"Ha. You're hilarious."

"All I need is a blanket fort," I joked. "Some cheesy horror movies, a bag of popcorn—brings back the old days, right?"

"Except you're not trying to steal my gummy bears."

"Well, if I'm being honest, you never _could_ finish the whole bag. Wimp."

I heard him laughing on the other line, and it made me smile. I had missed these talks, just talking about old times when we were kids. Back when things weren't so messy. I held the phone between my shoulder and crook of my neck as I continued eating my dinner: chicken sandwich with fries. A dinner fit for a Queen.

"How's Lee?" I asked conversationally.

"Working."

"How is she liking the Medical Examiner work?"

"It keeps her busy," He said with a low chuckle, "but she seems to enjoy it."

"And how's Harvey?"

"Lackadaisical."

"What's new."

"I know, right?" Jim replied, letting out a snicker of his own.

"How are _you_?"

"Tired."

"Have you been sleeping any?"

"Now you sound like Lee," Jim noted with a tone of annoyance.

"Well, I can't imagine you are," I said factually. "You're running around, trying to find this Ogre guy. I guess he's not fooling around, huh?"

"Not at all."

"Has he contacted you?"

"Yeah."

"Did you trace the call?"

Gritting his teeth, Jim answered, "Not enough feedback."

"Well, it makes sense," I said, mouthful of fries. "He's been doing this to cops for how many years, right? He's figured out the system by now."

"Mm-hmm."

There was a knock at the door. It was quiet at first, then it escalated the longer I waited.

" _Vee_?"

" **Shh**. Someone's at the door."

"Don't answer it."

"Jim, I have to answer it," I said curtly. "It may be important."

"Just keep me on the line, would you?"

"So be it. If it keeps you from yelling in my ear again, fine."

I placed my plate of sandwich and fries on the coffee table, wiping my hands on my robe before I stood. As promised, I kept the phone by my ear, and slowly opened the door.

Standing in front of me was Oswald, who looked as though he had been crying.

"Jim, I'll have to call you back."

"Is it him?"

"No, it's someone else." I answered vaguely. "I'll call you back." I hung up the phone and opened the door completely. "Oswald? What's wrong?"

He came inside wordlessly, and I closed and locked the door after he did. He sat on the couch, knees bent, his elbows atop them as he clasped his hands together tightly. He was trying to hold himself together, but the more he tried, the more fragile he appeared. I bit the inside of my cheek, approaching him.

I kept my voice soft and soothing: "Baby, what happened?"

"Maroni…" Oswald responded finally after a moment's hesitation; his voice shook, and his eyes glowered in hatred. "He told Mother…everything."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise and licked my lips uncertainly. How could Maroni tell Gertrud anything and she _believe_ him? She barely knew him; and she raised Oswald herself. But seeing the way he was slowly becoming undone—I figured Gertrud must have confronted him. Whatever the result, it didn't seem to help the matter any.

I joined him on the couch, holding my arms out and he moved into my embrace. He laid his head on my lap, his arms wrapped around my knees. Oswald's shoulders shook as he silently cried. Just seeing him like this, so devastated—it filled my heart with rage and hatred towards Maroni. The one innocent and saintly aspect of Oswald's life was his mother, after all.

I rubbed his shoulder and combed my fingers gently through his hair and off his face.

"Shh, it's okay, baby," I whispered.

"I'm going to kill him," Oswald said shakily.

"I have no doubt about that. I'm guessing that's what the Irishman was there for, hm?"

"Yes."

"Will he do it?"

"Yes. They hate Maroni almost as much as I do." Oswald said coldly.

"Glad to hear it; Maroni's a bastard. Is there anything I can do?"

He sat up, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand as he faced me. He sniffled, and then he cleared his throat. He seemed to have gathered himself together pretty quick.

"What do you _want_ to do?" He asked. Asking for suggestions.

I smirked, saying, "Honestly, if given the chance, I'd slit the fucker's throat, and deck the halls with his bowels, but that's just me."

Oswald let out a small snicker, "You always know just what to say."

"It's the highlight of my day when I can make you laugh." I responded lovingly. I took a fry from my plate and offered it to him: "Want one?"

"I'm not hungry."

"I can make you something to eat if you want."

"I'm a grown man, I can make my own dinner."

"I know you _can_. But I like doing it," I offered, getting to my feet.

Oswald looked around the apartment, noticing the lack of light.

"Why is it dark in here?" He questioned.

I walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The light from the fridge nearly blinded me and I squinted my eyes when I closed it, hoping they would adjust quicker. Back in the living room, I placed a bottle of chardonnay on the table and two glasses.

"Jim called me," I said cynically. "Told me that this serial killer would be after me."

And Oswald was pissed again. I stopped him before he could react, putting my hand over his.

"It's fine," I said quickly. "I don't think this person is after _me_. He seems like the type to try and cut the girlfriend before he goes after the sister. But just to appease him, I told Jim I would hide out here for the rest of the day and see what happens the day after."

"And _when_ were you going to tell me this?" Oswald asked coolly.

"You were busy with the Irishman. And I didn't think there was much to fuss about. This Ogre guy, the 'Don Juan Killer' as the papers call him...I don't see him as a threat."

"Are you sure that's not your genetics talking?" Oswald remarked sarcastically.

"I'm pretty sure it is," I sighed, pouring the Chardonnay in both glasses. "But I can't afford to know for sure."

Oswald scoffed, rolling his eyes, but he couldn't suppress the little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Someone endangers your life, you drink wine and watch bad movies," Oswald said ironically. "But god forbid someone greets you without saying 'hello'."

"It's common courtesy, babe," I retorted defensively. "You don't just _walk_ up to someone you've never met and say, 'I'm here to see Penguin'. That's fucking rude. I mean, I _know_ I grew up with a brusque family, but damn, people need to remember their manners."

"In his defense, he didn't know who you were."

"That doesn't matter," I persisted. "I don't care if I am a bum living on the streets or the owner of Buckingham Palace, respect goes both ways."

"You certainly have your priorities in order," Oswald commented.

I took a sip from my glass: "Damn straight."

**Chapter 19: To Start A War**

After the twenty-four hours had passed, I was back at work. I gave Tiffany the day off, took her shift as the bartender. I collected all the empty glasses left from the trickling patrons and wiped the counter, humming to myself. Earlier in the morning, Butch had walked past me, nodding in my direction, holding what appeared to be a suitcase before leaving the building.

The custodians came in, swept and mopped, dusted and vacuumed. The day was slow, but I didn't mind the quiet. Oswald sat on a stool at the bar, smiling at me. I folded my arms in front of me, leaning forward on the counter.

"How was your day?" I asked.

"Fair," Oswald answered. "How was yours, my little barmaid?"

"Slow. I don't mind it, though."

"Where's Rubberdale?"

"I gave her the day off. Figured you wouldn't mind. _Or_ notice."

Oswald scoffed, "Meaning what exactly?"

"You've been living inside your head, Ozzie," I whispered playfully. "I've seen you daydreaming, thinking of all the ways you'd kill the Don. Still going with the diner thing?"

"I haven't changed my mind."

"I still prefer my idea."

"I do too," He admitted. "It's a good idea, but too messy to be practical."

I straightened, and pretended I was offended, saying, "Well, _excuse_ me, Mr. Penguin. I didn't realize we were talking practicality."

Oswald chuckled in response.

"All joking aside, Maroni will strip-search those men you've hired."

"You watched Butch leave, didn't you?" Oswald said mischievously. "He's putting the guns in place."

"You've thought of everything, haven't you? You're a clever man, but then again, I already knew that."

"Flattery will get you places, Pigeon. Are you trying to get a promotion?" He teased.

"It's not flattery if it's true. And, by the way, I can think of far more enticing things to do to you for a promotion and they don't involve such pretty words."

Oswald smirked: " _You_ are in a flirtatious mood."

"I've had a good day," I explained, holding my hand out indicatively to the club. "Not one single person tried to hit on me, _and_ one sweet old lady gave me a ten-dollar tip. Now if that is not a good day, I don't know what is."

"You're not a hard woman to please, are you, Pidge?"

"I'm low maintenance," I agreed, giving him a crooked smile.

I leaned over the counter and he met me halfway in a small, short kiss. He touched my face, caressing my jaw. His tongue pressed against my bottom lip; I parted them, inviting him to deepen the kiss.

"If this goes any further, I'll have to pull you over this counter," I purred.

Butch came through the front door and rounded the bar. Oswald turned a bright shade of pink; Personally, I would have still acted on my last spoken thought regardless if Butch was present. But I digressed.

"I put the pistol under the bar, the shot gun under the Juke," Butch reported. He then gathered that he interrupted something and said awkwardly, "Should I…?"

"No, stay," I insisted. "You already ruined the mood."

Butch cleared his throat adding, "All Conner's gotta do is get to them."

Oswald said happily, "The day is finally here. Maroni—"

And once again, we were cut off. But this time, it was Jim storming inside the club. On a mission, as always, he approached Oswald. Butch and I exchanged apathetic glances; the former took a seat behind Oswald while I remained standing.

"Sylvia," Jim greeted dutifully.

"Hey _!_ I only promised I was going to wait twenty-four hours before I came back to work," I reminded quickly. "I kept my word."

"I'm not here about that," He responded briskly. To Oswald, he said, "I need to know where the Foxglove is, and I need an invitation."

Oswald responded humorously, "Well, _someone's_ in a mood."

"Can you help me out? Yes or no?"

"Jim, I do so love our give-and-take relationship, but it's starting to feel a bit one-sided."

Jim acknowledged my still-ever-bearing presence and said, "Fine. I'll owe you a favor."

"You already do."

I raised my eyebrows, looking at Jim: "You _do_?"

"I do—the thing with Loeb," Jim answered me quickly; then he ignored me once more and said to Oswald, "Then I'll owe you another one."

Oswald gave him a look: "Cards on the table? The Foxglove makes a lot of money for some very important people—"

Jim grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him off the stool. When Butch reacted, he then pulled out his gun and aimed it at him.

" _James_!" I scolded.

" _Shut up_ , Vee." Jim hissed, glowering at me before turning it on Oswald: "You think you know who I am. What I am capable of? You have no idea."

Oswald said calmly (albeit shakily): "Today is an important day for me. So, I will accommodate your request. But, Detective, mark my words. You owe me a _big_ favor."

Jim chuckled and let him go; Oswald furiously straightened his suit from where he'd been grabbed and Butch stood down.

"Wait here," He instructed firmly. "I'm going to make a few calls."

"Sure," Jim said, watching him.

Oswald moved to a different room. Butch looked at me wearily.

"Go, please." I requested. He did as I asked. I turned to Jim. "For fuck sake, why can't you just be _fucking_ polite to him?"

Jim growled, "Do you ever stop defending him?"

" _Defending_ _him_? You literally stormed into his club and _threatened_ him!"

"You don't know what's at stake, Vee."

"Tell me then! While you're at it, tell me why you're being such an ass."

"I like being an ass. It gives me a reason to smile in the morning."

"What the hell is the matter with you?" I questioned coldly. "You were all good-humored the last time we spoke, and then you come into the building like you're going on a manhunt. You put a man at gunpoint for crying out loud."

Jim placed his hands on the counter; I mirrored him.

"The Ogre has Barbara," Jim spoke through gritted teeth.

My temper extinguished almost immediately: "How long has she been with him?"

"I don't know," said Jim resentfully. "If anything happens to her, it's my fault."

"Probably."

"Wow. Thanks for that."

"What?" I said apathetically. "You know better than to come to me for a pity vote."

"Is it possible that you've become bitchier over the past year?"

"Does a bear shit in the woods?"

"Yes?"

"Well, there's your answer," I said, slapping my hand on the counter. "I'm a nice lady when you're _not threatening my fiancé_ or the peaceful sanctity that is my life. Besides, why are you even pursuing this guy if he's going after the people you love? Why hasn't anyone caught him before?"

"No one has pursued him _because_ he goes after the loved ones of anyone that investigates him—I told you this over the phone!"

"Don't you fucking _snap_ at me, that's fucking rude!"

"It's been the GCPD's dirty secret, according to Harvey."

"Ooh, the GCPD has a dirty secret. Stop the press! So, the police put it in the cold case files because no one wants their family murdered in their sleep. If that's the case, how did _you_ come across it?"

"One of the younger officers asked me to look into it," Jim explained—for what it was worth, the volume of his voice had lowered. "After talking with the others, I found out it was Commissioner Loeb that put him up to it. He knows I won't let a killer go free."

"The young officer?"

"No," Jim said irritably. "Loeb. He wants to see me fail."

"Well, let's look it at this objectively, yeah?" I said as I cleaned a glass with my rag. "You do one of two things, right? You either bite the bullet and accept the fact that Commissioner Loeb is a prick and he's looking to see you fail, move on with your life, and your lady love, Lee, can stay alive. And Barbara too, if you asked the Ogre to spare her. Or, option two, continue pursuing this mysterious Casanova bastard, sacrifice Barbara and Lee, possibly myself, all because of your damnable pride."

Jim glared daggers.

I placed the glass in front of me, admiring its shiny value.

"For you, it's a lose-lose, Jimmy," I spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. "If you don't go after the Ogre, Loeb wins. If you do go after him, Loeb wins."

"I can't stop pursuing him. He has Barbara!"

"Maybe he genuinely loves her?" I suggested skeptically. "Maybe he doesn't want to hurt her. But while you persist, the Ogre just keeps getting more pissed off. That's what you're telling me. My solution would be to simply back the fuck off, but we both know you're too stubborn to do that."

Jim grunted, "You are of _no_ help."

"Well, you're the one that came in, acting all tough as nails and hard as shit. Forgive me if I don't choose this moment to placate you with a blanket full of compassion and love."

Jim glared at me again.

"You keep giving me that look, your face will get stuck like that."

"You're insufferable."

"Well, that seems to be a trait we both seem to share; I could probably trace it right back to our very first ancestors that walked this earth billions and billions of years ago," I said half-seriously.

Jim sat down on the stool, folding his hands together. Fidgeting again. I placed my hands over his. His expression softened and I smiled gently at him.

"I do hope you find her," I said sincerely. "For what it's worth, I think she's hoping you do. You two may not be together anymore, but I can tell she still cares very deeply for you. Last I talked to her, anyway."

"You've spoken to her since?"

"Mm-hmm. Right before she cut ties with me," I uttered coolly. "Apparently, being friends with your ex's sister is damn near impossible anymore."

Jim allowed himself a small smile.

Oswald returned, looking more or less pleased with himself, he placed his phone on the counter with finality.

"Go to the pier," He instructed. "One of my informants will be waiting for you; they'll have what you need to get into the Foxglove."

"Thank you," Jim said briskly, turning on his heel.

"Good-bye, asshat!" I called after him lovingly.

Jim flipped me off in acknowledgment before leaving the building. Butch rejoined us at the bar counter, and I smiled at the two of them.

"Always a delight. I can only imagine what it will be like when we all come together for the holidays."

Butch said incredulously, "You three will be together for the holidays?"

"Not if I don't kill my brother first," I grumbled, rubbing my face.

Butch and Oswald exchanged amused glances.

Rick had shown up for work (finally) and took my shift, leaving _me_ free to spend the rest of my time with Oswald. I sat next to him on the stool, and I grinned broadly when he wrapped his arm around my waist—the public display of affection just made me giddy. Rick, a tall, blonde man who liked liquor almost as much as the rest of us (if not more), placed two glasses in front of us.

The metal band was rocking the stage, and it was a full house. Urgently moving through the crowd was Butch, who looked like he was about to pass a kidney stone.

"Conner blew it," He said earnestly. "Maroni's still alive. You gotta get out of town."

Oswald took a sip of his glass and spoke to Rick as though he hadn't heard a single word: "This is flat."

Rick took both glasses back to redo it, assuming mine was just as bad.

"Did you not hear me?" Butch exclaimed. "Maroni's still alive. You gotta get out of town!"

"And miss all the fun?" Oswald said mischievously.

Sudden realization crossed the gorilla's face.

"You _knew_?" Butch uttered, surprised. He looked at me. "Did _you_ know too?"

"I'm just as surprised as you are," I returned calmly.

"You set him up," Butch said incredulously.

Rick came by with fresh glasses. I thanked him kindly.

Oswald smirked, saying, "I took the firing pins out of the guns before you hid them. A spin on a trick I learned from Maroni."

"But you could have had Maroni dead!"

"True," Oswald agreed. "But I still would have been under Falcone's thumb and that has grown intolerable. No. I'd much rather Maroni be alive and out for blood."

Oswald lifted his glass in a toast. I leaned into him, nuzzling his neck.

"My criminal mastermind," I purred.

**Chapter 20: The King of Gotham**

In a matter of two weeks, Gotham lit up like a firework on the Fourth of July.

When Maroni attacked Falcone's bars, Falcone retaliated and attacked Maroni's warehouses. Falcone would attack two of Maroni's men; the Italian Don, the hothead that he was, would double the damage and go after four of Falcone's lieutenants.

Every channel on Gotham's News exploded with reports of the power struggle between Carmine Falcone and Salvatore Maroni. There was a live video streaming from Gotham Five where five men on both sides of the families were just fighting, literally, in the streets. Guns, knives, brass knuckles—like a modern-day version of the _West Side Story._ Absolute anarchy.

I stood on the roof of my apartment complex, looking above all the other buildings. The black sky was clear, a blanket of stars shown overhead. Even from this height, I could hear the gunfire, and see the wisps of smoke rising from different parts of town.

It was a full out gang war.

The neutrals were hiding in their complexes, in their houses, in their basements. Forget the other Five Families. Forget the Narrows. Forget everyone else; if you were on Falcone's side, you were getting blown up by Maroni. If you were on Maroni's side, you'd find a bomb waiting under your car, ready to ignite the moment you revved up the engine.

I kept my cell phone on me, and I glanced at it a lot more frequently than I cared to admit. I had never felt more anxious and yet exhilarated than I did standing on the roof, waiting, anticipating. I didn't know what phone call I would receive; I was hoping to hear from Oswald soon.

Today, Don Falcone had been hit. One of Maroni's men had hit the car with a rocket launcher; he was rushed to the hospital. Oswald said he was tying up loose ends; I was smart enough to know that it meant he was going to finish off Falcone.

I volunteered to go, but both Butch and Oswald insisted I remain behind. 'Too dangerous', they said.

Perhaps I would consider doing what Oswald told me to do. But the longer I waited, the more worried I became. Falcone was unpredictable.

An hour passed, and I stared down at my phone.

_I'm not going to wait here and hope for the best._ Not when I knew that I could do something about it. But where would I start—

Did I even have to ask myself that anymore?

I left the roof, down the elevator, jumped into my car, and drove down the highway.

When I walked into the GCPD station, I had to stand for a few minutes with my jaw open. Police officers stormed through the building, gathering men by the handful, pushing them into cells. Maroni Loyalists tried clawing their way through the bars; Falcone Loyalists snarled in response, like wolves. I looked at the balcony, searching for Jim. I couldn't see him. But I did see someone else who could help me.

_Harvey Bullock. The main man himself._

I headed up the stairs, two at a time. Breathlessly, I stopped in front of him. He was just getting off the phone, and the look on his face said I was already running a little too behind.

"What happened? Is Jim okay?" I panted, bending over slightly to catch my breath.

"You're out of shape, Kitten," Harvey said cynically.

"I blame my anxiety. And you're one to talk."

"If you think you're coming with me—"

"My brother is out there, Harvey." I interrupted him harshly, straightening. "If you think I'm just going to stay behind like everyone else wants me to—"

"You didn't let me finish!" Harvey shouted over me.

I stared at him, taken aback.

"You didn't let me finish! If you think you're coming with me, you're _right_."

"Do you know where he is?"

"Yeah, I just finished talking to him," He said, getting up. He took his hat, and placed an extra magazine inside his pocket, lock and loading his gun.

"Where is he?"

"He's at the hospital, guarding Falcone."

"Maroni's men will be there to finish him off!" I snapped furiously. "Why the fuck is he there!"

Harvey grabbed my arm, pulling me with him, saying, "He's trying to get him to safety."

I followed Harvey out in a semi-jog (mainly because Harvey had trouble keeping up with a sprinter like myself). He tossed himself in the driver's seat; I jumped into the passenger side, closing the door. He revved the engine and bolted into the street.

"Everyone agreed that Falcone was out," I told Harvey unhappily. "I guess Jim has this convoluted idea that Falcone can bring back control."

"He lost control a long time ago," Harvey interjected.

"No shit, Sherlock. Tell me something I don't know."

Harvey side-glanced me, rolling his eyes as he drove through a red light: "You're less of a putz than your brother, that's for sure."

He took a hard right.

"You're so sweet—no wonder you're already married."

"I'm not married."

"My point exactly," I responded sarcastically.

"How you and Jim grew up without killing each other, I will never know," said Harvey; he winced when his side-view mirror on my side broke off after skimming against another vehicle.

"I sure hope you have insurance."

"It's against the law not to have car insurance," Harvey retorted.

"Ooo-oooh! Big Bad Harvey Bullock, following the 411 on rules. Such a bad-ass."

"I'm going to push you out of this car."

"I'll just drag you out with me. And you _know_ I will."

Harvey stomped on the brake just outside of the Emergency Room. Empty ambulances crowded the basement. We jogged through the hospital, following the sounds of gunfire.

"Stay back," Harvey warned.

"Don't have to tell me twice," I muttered, pushing my backside against the wall.

No doubt Maroni's men had tried to finish off Falcone while he had been vulnerable. Harvey took a leap forward and after exchange of gunfire, I didn't hear anything until—

"Jim! It's me! Don't shoot!" Harvey shouted.

The gunfire stopped, so I came out of the wreckage. Jim held two pistols: one was his spare. Seeing Harvey, he looked relieved. When he saw who accompanied him, he suddenly became really, _really_ pissed.

"What the _hell_ is she doing here?" Jim shouted, pointing at me furiously.

"She wanted to come!"

"And you let her!?"

Harvey shouted back. "I will _not_ be the dead man who tells this woman to chill!"

I smirked at Jim: "Finally! Someone who listens to reason!"

"You can't be here, Sylvia!"

"Too bad, I'm already here!"

"Don't worry about her!" Harvey bellowed. "There are ambulances in the basement. Where's your man?"

"About that," Jim panted. "We have to take Penguin and Butch Gilzean with us."

Harvey looked like he might have a stroke as he said, "Penguin _and_ Butch Gilzean?"

"I arrested them for attempted murder; they're in my custody—"

"Ah! I don't even wanna hear it right now—let's go!" Harvey retorted, waving his hand at him.

I followed Jim back to wherever Falcone was being harbored. On the way there, I smacked him in the arm, hard.

" _You arrested Oswald, how dare you!_ " I snapped. "What kind of fucking asshole _are you_ , James Gordon!"

We burst into the room, door banging open. Falcone was sitting on the gurney, restraint-free. Oswald and Butch were handcuffed to a water heater. My mouth dropped open and I glared at Jim who ignored me as he quickly took the cuffs off both of my boys.

I slapped Jim in the arm again: " Are you fucking kidding me! **You** "— _slap—_ " **are such** "— _slap_ —" **an** **ass**!"

"Stop hitting me!" Jim retorted.

"God! I can't even believe you right now—"

Falcone interrupted, "Perhaps we should put aside our quarrels for another day?"

"He's right, let's move!" Harvey ordered.

We all were moving down the hall as fast as we could, but in all consideration of the fact, it wasn't all that fast. Oswald had his own complication, but he could still run pretty fast; Falcone was hurting to walk.

"Through here," Harvey directed; after we turned the corner, we stood in the parking garage where a few ambulances were parked, unguarded.

"Get in the back," Jim ordered, pointing at the double doors of one empty ambulance.

Butch and I opened the doors. I helped Oswald in; Butch (reluctantly) aided Falcone, giving him a stepper upper into the ambulance. Harvey jumped in, after I did, closing the double doors.

Falcone watched me with hawk eyes. I didn't even need to ask the reason why.

'Birds of a feather, flock together'. As far as he was concerned, pigeons and penguins were just as guilty.

The ambulance ride was _not_ fun to say the least. It rocked and rolled. Without seat belts, it proved to be a very memorable, hazardous bumpy ride. Some bullets penetrated the ambulance while others ricocheted.

Jim bellowed, "GET DOWN!"

And we hit the deck.

"I don't know about you all," I giggled, "but this is like the most fun I've had in my entire life!"

Butch stared at me like I had gone mad; Oswald couldn't comment; Falcone was still glaring at me, regardless of his opinion on the matter.

Under his breath, Harvey muttered, "Crazy broad."

"I heard that, _Harvey_ ," I said pointedly.

"I said it loud enough where you could hear me."

"No, you didn't. You didn't think I was listening. Now that you've been caught, you're trying to pretend you wanted me to hear it all along."

"God," Butch said irritably. "Have you ever tried _not_ speaking your mind?"

"Haven't thought about doing that before. I'm not about to start now."

Falcone chuckled, "Argumentative one, isn't she?"

Oswald muttered, rolling his eyes, "You have _no_ idea."

"I'm pretty sure I do," Harvey said sardonically. "I've heard it the entire way here."

"Fuck you, Harvey."

Harvey snickered, "Same to you, baby doll. You crazy broad. See, _that_ time I said it loud enough for you to hear."

The truck suddenly stopped with a jolt; the doors swung open, and Jim looked at all of us. I hopped out; the ambulance itself was totally wrecked; the hood was smoking; the windows were shattered.

Harvey asked Falcone, "Are you sure no one knows about this place?"

Jim held tight onto Oswald as we strolled forward.

"I'm sure," said Falcone. "Nobody. Anybody else who knew about this place is dead."

And…just like that, a figure came a-strolling, wearing an incredible amount of leather, and a permed up-do. She reminded me of a black cat, the way she strolled towards us.

"Selina?" I recognized her.

"Hellooo," She greeted smugly. "What's up?"

A door rose up with a metal clang. It was an astonishing—if not devastating image—of a very much alive Fish Mooney strutting towards us with a band of new followers. The difference between the last time I saw Fish and this time was that not only had her hair changed, so had her eyes. One, sky-blue eyeball had replaced the original hazel brown.

_What the fuck…_

As if reading our thoughts, Fish drawled, "I know...I know...it's astonishing. Sometimes I astonish myself."

Perhaps it wasn't worth the effort of trying to run. Maybe it was because at some point, we knew this would happen. I knew for a fact that all of Fish's followers held guns and I was _not_ about to get blown to pieces because I wanted to chance a 20% success rate of a 500-yard sprint escape.

Harvey, Jim, Oswald, and Falcone were bound by the hands, their binds placed on hooks, like slabs of meat waiting to be shipped out to the deli. I was uncertain as to why they had left me alone—that was until Fish approached me. I looked at her, eyes wide. And I was ashamed to admit that I had never been so intimidated by another woman as I was at that moment.

"How have you been, little girl?" She breathed.

"I have to admit, I've had better days. How've _you_ been?"

"Time has not helped that tongue of yours, has it?" Fish said coldly.

She grabbed my hair and pushed me down on my knees. My kneecaps hit the concrete, hard. I winced but didn't make a sound; I was just trying to hold onto her hand, hoping she didn't pull any harder on my hair.

"Despite what you've done to me," Fish growled, "I will give you this one chance. You were like a daughter to me...once."

"Take it from me, Miss Mooney," I grimaced. "I wouldn't call you a part of my family, so I'd say you're wasting your breath on me."

Fish brought my head down, striking me in the face with her knee. I grunted, falling down on the concrete. Looking down, I could see rainwater, and blood.

_Fucking bitch broke my nose._

"You're right," Fish said, smirking. "It's clear I don't mean much to you."

"Wow, you're _very_ perceptive."

"For Christ's sake, Vee!" Jim shouted. "For once in your life, _stop talking_!"

I turned on my back, looking up at Fish. Seeing my smile, she growled deep in her throat. She tied my hair several times around her fist and dragged me to my feet; the feeling of my roots being torn out of my skull was a bit too much.

She forced me to turn; I looked at Falcone, Oswald, Jim, and Harvey, all watching me.

Jim and Oswald had never looked more helpless. They were restrained, but I was certain that if they ever had a moment of freedom, they would claw Fish Mooney's eyes out within a second. A young man approached Fish, holding out a phone.

"It's _him_ , Boss," He said.

She dragged me along, walking away to speak more privately on the phone with the said contender.

"Don Maroni," Fish answered smoothly. "Yes. Alive and well. Well, that's a long _story_ " (She emphasized by yanking my hair forward and I tripped over my feet) "We need to talk. I have something you want."

She hung up, smirking at me.

"My mark on you never stayed, did it?" Fish drawled; she traced my collar bone with a fingernail. Instead of the Fish symbol she had carved into my flesh so long ago, there was still the aftermath of Oswald's love bite instead. She gave me a look of 'seriously?' and I smirked at her.

"I told you, Miss Mooney," I said breathlessly. "I _never_ belonged to you."

"Your brother's right…You _really_ should learn when to stop talking."

A car pulled up, and out came several of Maroni's men, led by the Don himself. Fish dragged me with her—again—It was like I was restrained by my own hair! If that wasn't humiliating, I didn't know what was.

"Get on your knees," Fish ordered.

"I didn't get on my knees for you before—I'm not about to start now."

Maroni approached her with open arms. I glanced at Oswald who was in between two strong emotions: Fear and Anger. It seemed to be his common go-to these days. Jim looked nonchalant, like he was seeing where this was heading. Harvey had long since been let go; he just hung back to see what would happen. Falcone looked pretty damn peaceful for someone who was going to be taken off the roster any minute now.

"Fish! You, mysterious, crazy, gorgeous killer, you. I love you," said Maroni happily. He stood in front of Falcone, smirking: "This is delicious. You're hard to kill, old man."

"No, I'm not," Falcone said smugly. "Your people are second-rate."

Maroni gave him a look.

"Well, he's right." I muttered.

And _that_ was when I regretted speaking my mind. Jim and Oswald let out quiet exasperated sighs as Maroni turned to me. It was like I had been invisible, up until now. Fish was smirking as he stepped towards me, closing the distance between us.

"Hello, Sylvia." Maroni said smugly. "How've you been?"

"So-so," I answered, grinning broadly at him. _That's right, just make it worse on yourself._ "You?"

"I've never felt better."

"Good to hear. Sorry I missed Mack's funeral," I lamented sarcastically. "I was able to get to know him on a deeper, intimate level. I was able to see what kind of lout he really was before—you know—he died. Shame the doctors never figured out what the fuck happened to him. Or, you know…bothered to care."

I glanced at Fish saying, "One of his men came in with another one of his lackeys and tried to rape me. I bit his dick off, shot him in the balls, and he bled out like a stuck pig. Just let that slowly sink in—this is the man that you're going to be working alongside and—"

Maroni punched me straight in the face. He was a quick one with a heavy hand. I won't lie: It hurt like hell.

"That all you got?" I managed, smirking. "You punch like your mother."

"You have a death wish, don't you?" Maroni said all too happily.

"Well, you know—"

Maroni punched me again, and _that_ one really hurt. It brought me down to my knees, actually.

"Vee, _shut up_!" Jim shouted.

Fish grabbed me by the neck, smiling at me.

"You're only going to make it worse for yourself, darling," She said softly.

I looked at Fish, and I could see it in her eyes that she wasn't kidding. Maroni spoke to Falcone, speaking in such low volumes that I couldn't ignore her.

"Miss Mooney," I said quietly. "If you let Oswald or Jim—either one go—I'll bow to you. I'll do whatever it is that you want. Just, please… _Don't_."

My resolve broke when the fleeting thought came to mind—if Jim and Oswald both died tonight, I would be completely alone. Fish seemed to gather that, and the malicious smile that spread across her face scared the hell out of me!

" _Butch_!" Fish called.

Maroni turned curiously as Butch came to her side.

"Take Sylvia. I've learned what it has been like to die and feel alone in this cruel world. Maybe she will learn what it truly feels like to have the wish to die…" (She grinned widely at Jim and Oswald) "when she has no one left...much like I was when I was _cast_ out of Gotham."

"No..." I whispered, shaking my head.

Butch grabbed my arm.

"No. Fish, you can't do that. Please!" I begged.

Damn my humiliation! Be damned my pride. I just wanted to make sure the two people left of my family were safe. What was the point of all the hell I had been through and back if this was how it was going to end!

"Take her away, Butch!" Fish snapped.

"Fish, you can't do this! **_MY WHOLE FAMILY IS THERE_**! YOU CAN'T DO THIS!"

I screamed, and shrieked. I kicked, I struggled. Butch held fast to me and pulled me away. I could not break free of his grip, no matter the effort as he shoved me into a closet.

"I'm sorry, Sylvia," Butch said—and he sounded genuinely apologetic.

"Butch! BUTCH! Get me out of here! YOU CAN'T DO THIS! YOU CAN'T! Let me out! _PLEASE_!"

It was a small closet. Nothing more than a janitor's cell for household cleaning items such as brooms and mop buckets. It could barely fit three people. The light switch didn't work. I jiggled the doorknob—It didn't budge.

"LET ME OUT!" I screamed. "PLEASE! LET ME OUT!"

I banged on the door, kicked it—I damn near broke my toe! Soon my words became nothing more than shrieks of devastation and fury.

_Look around, Sylvia. Is there anything you can use—_

There was nothing that could get me out of this closet. A mop, a broom, and a mop bucket. There wasn't even a single damn lockpick or a fucking bobby pin. The one time I get locked inside a closet had to be in one where the janitor had some obsessive need to keep everything squeaky clean and dust-free.

I rubbed my face, wiping away the tears. No matter how much I tried to force myself to stop crying, only more tears came out.

_Fucking pussy—come on, you can get out._

I looked up. What if the ceiling had a venting system? Could I climb up there?

_Even if I could, there was no way I was getting up to the ceiling. The mop bucket stood no more than half a foot, and I was short as it was._

"FUCK!" I shrieked, kicking the door again.

_Well, back to screaming._

"Someone let me out of this fucking closet, _right—_ "

I heard someone shoot once. At first there was nothing. Nothing but silence. Just terrifying, ear-ringing silence. And then shots fired from each and every direction.

_Well, at least I'm in this closet, safe and sound._

"Until the victor retrieves the spoils," I said darkly.

_Damn, that joke was in bad taste—even for me._

And then more silence followed.

"LET ME OUT OF THIS CLOSET, FOR FUCK SAKE!" I shouted at the top of my lungs.

More silence followed. Holy shit, did they all kill each other?! The sound of a machine gun went off like it was having a killing spree.

Then it stopped.

And then one single round was fired.

"FIIIIIISH!" I heard Oswald scream. "WHERE ARE YOU!"

"Oswald?" I breathed.

_At least he's alive…_ What about Jim though?

"He's a survivor," I muttered. "They both are. They'll both get through this. Fuck the rest of them." I kicked at the door. "AND FUCK THIS DOOR, GOD DAMN IT!"

The door…

THE DOOR!

"Thank you, police officer James Gordon!" I said, smiling widely. I stood, reaching my hands in the vast darkness.

_Find the doorknob._

_Where the hell is it. Fuck!_

_Ah! There it is._

Jim was used to breaking down doors. His job demanded it, especially in Gotham. Back when he had just finished the police academy, he was showing off to his buddies how to kick down a door. I had only seen it done twice. That was some years ago.

Did one break above or below the lock? Did it really it matter? We'll do both.

_Here we go…here we go...okay...and KICK!_

"GOD DAMN IT, my fucking foot! Holy shit, that fucking HURTS!" I shouted, rubbing my ankle. "What the hell is this thing made of! Solid gold! Fucking fuckery!"

_Try again._

And…. _KICK!_

The door bust open, the lock was still set in place, but the door had nearly come off its hinges. It was only when I came out of the room that I realized just how hot and cramped it was in that small-ass closet.

After hearing the gunshots, I shouldn't have been so shocked to see all the bodies lying on the ground, including the dead body of Don Maroni. I looked over the dead, making sure none of them looked like my brother. It didn't appear that Jim, Harvey, or Falcone had been hit in the crossfire.

_Where's Oswald?_

_Where's Fish_?

I looked around, searching for possible routes. I saw the fire escape; stairs led up to the roof.

_I do love a roof_ , I thought. _Bingo._

I ran up the stairs, climbing them two at a time, breathless.

And just in time to see Oswald and Fish Mooney in a power struggle. Butch held a gun, aiming at either Fish or Oswald; he seemed to switch between the two—his love for Fish begged him to shoot Oswald but Victor Zsasz' training ordered him to take down Fish.

With both parties shouting at him to drop both of them, Butch first shot Mooney then he shot Oswald.

While Butch was immediately regretting hurting Fish and they were talking about it, Oswald slowly rose to his feet and hit Butch over the head with a plank of wood. After knocking him out temporarily, Oswald grinned at Fish with only one thought on his mind. And she seemed to figure it out quick.

"It's all good," She said, smiling warily.

"Good-bye, _Fish!"_ Oswald ran towards her, lifted her up, tossed her over the fucking roof (" _No_!" Butch shouted); her scream echoed even as I heard the splash.

"I'm the King of Gotham," Oswald said, smiling to himself. Then he stood on the ledge and screamed for all of the city to hear: "I'M THE KING OF GOTHAM!"

* * *

Author's Note: That's a wrap for this sequel. Hope you enjoyed it. :) If you liked this one, head over to my sequel. It's up and called "Exchange of Power". You can leave a review if ya like :p If you didn't like this story, well, it was nice having you here and I appreciate you taking your time to read this all the way through. Anyway, come back for the next 'chapter' and read the sequl. It'll be up soon. As stated before, the story from here on out will be told in third person. Thanks guys! 


	3. Exchange of Power (Part 1 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of 3 of Third Installment: Exchange of Power. 
> 
> Highlights: Oswald settles into his role as the King of Gotham as he and Sylvia tie the knot; Oswald experiences a new level of submission; Victor and Sylvia go on a contract together; With the wedding underway, Jim and Sylvia's relationship is tested as well as her new marriage when Galavan and his sister make their debut; In his new transformation, Edward Nygma reveals previously hidden feelings towards Sylvia; and Jim and Oswald agree to a pact that will protect Sylvia from being put in Black Gate. 
> 
> Warning: This sequel has minor elements of non-con (mentioned at beginning of applicable chapters), major character death, lots of angst, and oodles of smut (dom/sub context).

Title: **Exchange of Power**  
Total # of Chapters: 51, Words: 192,760

**Chapter 1: Having A Drink**

Disclaimer: _So, here we go: I don't own any of_ Gotham _'s plots or its characters. This story is non-profit, please don't sue me: I don't have any money. My main OC, Sylvia Gordon, is my creation as well as a few minor OCs. I've added subplots of my own that will likely alter events set in_ Gotham _so be aware of that._

James Gordon was only a year older than Sylvia. They were brother and sister; Jim had dark blonde hair and cerulean blue eyes; he took after their father. Sylvia inherited their mother's ginger hair and had eyes like Dad's. Both siblings were stubborn, strong-willed. What kept them from being the same person was their stance on crime: Jim was a cop. Sylvia, a criminal.

Their stance on crime was what led Jim and Sylvia down two different paths.

Sylvia's fiancé was the new King of Gotham. In all fairness, she knew he would have gotten to the top with or without her help; he was ambitious, clever, and he had been plotting to take Falcone's place the moment he met him. And Sylvia loved him for it all.

But not without struggling to keep the sibling bond between her and Jim.

She and Jim had been through a lot together as children, but nothing like they'd been through as adults. With Fish Mooney dead in the water, Maroni in the ground six feet under, and Don Carmine Falcone retired out of the business, it seemed that Oswald had finally done what he had set out to do—and while the love of her life was living on the highs of success, Jim was demoted. That being said, it was hard for Sylvia to celebrate Oswald's long-time coming fortune wholeheartedly while her brother's career was seemingly in the can.

Jim was grimly tossing back booze; he'd finished another shift as a traffic cop (or she assumed as he was wearing civilian clothes instead of his uniform). She'd guessed it was a shift gone bad since he was grumpier than usual.

"I guess you're living the high life now," Jim said despondently as he threw back his fifth drink. "Aren't you going to say 'I told you so'?"

"What kind of sister would I be if I kicked a man down while he was drowning in his troubles." Sylvia questioned ironically.

"You'd be my sister."

"True, but you have my pity vote for now. I'll buy you another drink when you've finished that one."

They sat at a bar counter, her seat neighboring his. Jim made a habit of casually switching his attention between his next drink and side-glancing at his sister with a grudge. Jim wasn't happy—he had been telling Sylvia all this time that her bird boyfriend would not amount to anything and yet, here they were: Penguin was boss of the underworld now, and Sylvia was his bride-to-be. And Jim was a level above being a civilian—that was if Loeb didn't find one more reason to get rid of his badge already.

The corner of his mouth tugged upwards as he attempted to suppress a smile. Normally Sylvia's antiquated, cynical sense of humor was enough to cheer him up. Not today.

Sylvia sat backwards on her stool, her back leaned against the counter, elbows on the surface. The need to make her brother smile had quickly faded; sometimes, he refused to be happy, even if he did want to smile. He just wouldn't allow it.

"How does it work," Jim said nonchalantly, earning a curious look from her. "With Penguin being the 'king of Gotham'."

Sylvia shrugged: "It's business as usual; he has the empire to rule, debts to collect."

"You're not going to be a part of that?" Jim questioned poignantly.

"I will be, but for now, I have things to take care of."

"Things like what?"

"Oswald gave me his nightclub."

He raised his eyebrows: "That's generous of him."

"It was a wedding present."

Jim cleared his throat and placed his empty shot glass in front of her. It was a nonverbal request that he wanted that drink now, especially since they had inadvertently approached the white elephant in the room. Sylvia offered her own, placing the drink in front of him.

She exhaled a long deep breath, certain that Jim had not changed his mind since they had last spoke of the rhetoric. She turned to face him, crossing a knee over her leg, and leaned towards Jim so that he had to acknowledge her.

She said softly, "I know you're in a mood, and it's hard for you to be happy, but would it kill you to at least _pretend_ you're happy for me?"

Jim tossed back the sixth drink of the evening, and placed it on the counter, turning in his seat to face her completely. Ever since he found out that she and Oswald were together (shortly after he falsely followed Don Falcone's orders to kill him), their sibling friendship had become something of a love-hate relationship.

Jim refused to accept that she was going to marry Oswald. While she attested the contrary, she did not blame him; she could see his reasoning for hating him—after all, he stood for everything Jim was against.

"You know I only want what's best for you," Jim said hoarsely.

"I know," Sylvia reassured. "But 'what's best for me' and 'what you want for me' are two separate things. And we've been over this many times before." (She took his hands in hers, he allowed her to do so reluctantly.) "You're my brother, Jimmy; you're the only family I have left. I want you to be the one who gives me away."

Jim frowned: "You want me to give you to him."

"I will be marrying him regardless...but it would be nice to have your blessing."

He made a scathing noise.

Sylvia said coldly, "You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

"I haven't."

"You won't sacrifice your damnable pride even for my wedding day?"

"He's a gangster, Vee."

"He's the love of my life."

"That makes it worse."

"I could marry a lawyer or a cop and they could treat me like a piece of meat. I'm marrying Oswald because he loves me for _me_ ; just as I love Oswald for all that he is."

Her words had no way of changing Jim's opinion, clearly, as he remained stone-faced.

Sylvia rolled her eyes, dropping his hands from hers completely, and turned in her seat to stare angrily at the bar counter.

"Why him?" Jim asked tiredly. "You're beautiful, you're intelligent—Mom and Dad would want you to be with someone honorable."

"Oswald is an honorable man."

"He's a crook."

"So am I. And everything he has done; he's done for me. To better himself, to better our lives as a couple."

Jim rolled the empty shot glass in his hand.

"He tried to kill Falcone."

"And you arrested him; doing so, you nearly got all of us killed—thanks for that by the way. You, Harvey, Falcone—all of you would have been dead by Fish Mooney's hand, if it hadn't been for him."

"None of that would have happened if it wasn't for Penguin starting the war. And _you_ know that's true."

"I'll stipulate to that. But Falcone was losing control. Maroni would have run wild, and Gotham would have been thrown into chaos. It's because of Oswald that Gotham's Underworld is finally starting to settle down ever since the Waynes were killed. You have to admit that. At _least_ that."

Jim rolled his eyes in disgust. He was the unstoppable force, trying to prove to Sylvia many times over that she and Oswald were not meant to be together. Yet, the facts were there, were they not? How many times had Oswald been there for her when she needed him to be? And then how many times had Jim been there when Sylvia needed _him_? The odds weren't in her brother's favor. And this wasn't the first time they had argued about this very issue. It might have been the fiftieth time, give or take. And it always ended with a stalemate.

"What can you possibly see in someone like him, Vee," Jim muttered, rubbing his temples.

"Many things: he's sophisticated, handsome, well-dressed, and he has an intellect that borders on a level of psychotic genius," Sylvia said pointedly. She smirked, adding, "Not to mention, he's a monster in the sack."

"Ah, Vee!" Jim cringed. She laughed at his reaction.

"You asked, I answered."

"God, I wished I hadn't," He groaned.

"That's an interesting visual," said Harvey Bullock as he approached the bar counter on the opposite side. Sylvia lifted her eyes from her cringing brother to the bartender. Humored, Harvey asked, "Long time, no see. How have you been? Mug any of the lonely hobos in the Narrows?"

He punched her playfully on the arm, earning a sheepish smile from Sylvia while Jim scowled.

In her teen years, Sylvia mugged people left and right. And she didn't stop even after she turned of age; While not many could match the crime to the assailant, Harvey and Jim always knew she was somehow behind the two-bit crimes. Over the last couple of years, she had worked for Fish Mooney, Maroni, and Falcone—or at least that had been what most had assumed. Really, she had only one boss; and she planned on marrying him.

Harvey smiled at her expectantly, waiting for a witty comeback. Sylvia crossed her arms on the wooden surface of the bar counter; the former cop mirrored her in stance.

"I've not had to roll anyone for their cash for some time now," Sylvia noted smartly.

"You robbed a bank a few days ago."

Sylvia smirked, "You can't prove that."

Jim said callously, "Witnesses say they saw a redhead."

"As according to whom?"

"Rumors. The other cops assume it was you."

"Hm," Sylvia hummed. "Hypothetically, if I did rob a bank, why would I do that?"

"Maybe it's not you," Harvey suggested. "You work for Penguin, right? Being 'Queen of Gotham' means ya have the jitters—Queenie like you doesn't need money."

Sylvia shrugged nonchalantly, like she was innocent. But Harvey knew better. Jim knew better.

"Maybe it's not the money. You miss it, though, don't you," Harvey teased. "The mugging, the robbery. The thrill of getting caught. You know what they say—'Once a skell, always a skell'."

"Harvey," Jim hissed. "She's still my sister, damn it."

"Nah," Sylvia mused, sharing a smile with Harvey. "He's right—about the thrill. Done that for the better part of my life, it's hard to stop."

Harvey said knowingly, "Penguin keeps tabs on your extracurricular activities, doesn't he?"

Sylvia rolled her eyes: "Yes."

"Working for your fiancé seems like a bittersweet deal. Keeps you on a leash, tells you what to do, tells you what _not_ to do (Like robbing banks, am I right?). But you like it, don't you—being told what to do." Harvey questioned knowingly.

"Within reason," Sylvia admitted.

"You know I give you a hard time because I love you."

"Have I ever mentioned that I hate you?"

"Hate has turned into love over time, Liv," He said cheekily, "and you know I have only love for you. I hear you got your own nightclub. Taking over Mooney's old place; Guess you'll be renaming it 'Sylvia's'?"

"No." Sylvia replied, standing to her feet. "I'll be calling it 'Lean on Vee'."

"'Lean on Vee'? I'm the only one that calls you 'Vee'," Jim pointed out.

"I know," She said passively, smiling at her brother; Jim glared at her in response, pouting like a kid.

"Catchy," Harvey complimented. "Will you be handing out invitations?" (He wiggled his eyebrows) "I hope I get one; I'd love to see one of your performances; I hear you sing like a lark."

Sylvia smiled modestly: "I do occasionally—I've let Tiffany take the reins; she finds the best entertainment. And invitation is all by mouth."

"She dances too," Jim said curtly, glaring at Sylvia. "You should see the perverts watching her—like she's a piece of meat."

"Well, Jim—I know you can't tell because you're her brother, but Sylvia here is a 13 on a scale of 1 to 10." Harvey stated pointedly (Jim rolled his eyes.)

"I plan the choreography," Sylvia corrected. "And it isn't as though I'm strip dancing on the catwalk." She smiled at Harvey, adding, "show girls don't know how to dance anymore. You have to show them how to do it, step by step."

"How does Penguin feel about you singing and dancing in front of all those skells?" Harvey asked interestedly, wiping the counter as though he wasn't all too curious, but the quirk of his eyebrow said differently.

"The club makes a hell lot more money than when Fish was running things. I have guards at every door."

"Sounds like you're protected," Harvey said audaciously. "But you didn't answer my question."

"Men look at me all the time, my entire life." Sylvia said seriously. "They look whether I am in sweats or in a dress. Where Oswald is concerned, he has nothing to worry about. He knows he has nothing to worry about. Besides, dance practice only happens when the club is closed. My men are almost as protective of me as Oswald is. People who are afraid of Penguin know they can't touch me."

"I'm not afraid of Penguin," Harvey pointed out. "What if I wanted to try something?"

"Then you have **him** to worry about," She said, nodding her head in the direction of her brother. "If they're not afraid of Penguin, they're afraid of Jim. He punched Paul Britton in the mouth when he gave me a Valentine's Day card."

Harvey raised his eyebrows at Jim incredulously, but not surprised.

Jim said defensively, "He should have known better."

"James," Sylvia chuckled. "We were eight!"

Harvey had a nice laugh about that; Sylvia joined him.

Jim frowned and said stoically, "Congratulations on all your success, Vee."

Sylvia chuckled, "You _can_ say 'fuck you'. It just makes you look like a sycophant trying to congratulate me with that false cheer of yours."

"Well, then: Fuck you," Jim grunted, throwing back another drink.

" _That's_ the brother I know and love."

Harvey and Sylvia grinned broadly at each other. Harvey refilled Sylvia's glass of bourbon, three ice cubes upon her request. She thanked him, taking a sip. A moment later, her phone buzzed in the back pocket of her jeans; quickly, she pulled it out and answered the call while Jim and Harvey spoke quietly.

"Sylvia, where are you?"

It was Oswald, speaking in low tones. Sylvia felt butterflies fluttering in her stomach; his voice made her smile—many nights, he could make her wet using only that.

"Having a drink with my kin," She answered softly, "You?"

"I'm where _you_ should be," Oswald said calmly.

Sylvia held her drink in her hand, swirling the liquid in her cup, watching the ice melt, "I haven't forgotten—the meeting at four, right?"

"Correct," Oswald said, satisfied by her answer. "How is Jim Gordon?"

Sylvia glanced at Jim and Harvey speaking in low tones about police work. She answered quietly, "Solemn and grumpy. I've never seen him act so dull. He'll get over it though."

"He has no other choice, I imagine. Are you leaving soon?"

"About to, yes. I have a few errands to run before I come home."

"What are you doing after?"

"I'll be helping Tiffany unpack. I've already met with the landlord," She said conversationally. "I've paid the rest of this month's rent; Tiffany will be completely moved in by the end of the week, hoping to the move the rest tonight. I'll be happy when she moves out of that shitty half-way house."

"I'll send Gabe to help."

"The more, the merrier!"

In the background, Victor Zsasz and Butch Gilzean spoke in less than dulcet tones. Obviously, there was a disagreement. Sylvia's suspicions were confirmed when she heard Oswald's familiar exasperated sigh.

She lowered her voice to a low seductive pitch, drawing him back to her: "Ozzie."

Oswald's response was soft; however, faint was the hint of annoyance, "Yes?"

"What are you wearing?" She whispered humorously.

Her sexual innuendo made him chuckle, but his response was serious: "Don't be late to the meeting, Sylvia."

"I won't be. Love you!"

"And I, you." Oswald responded. Just as Sylvia was hanging up, he yelled, "Victor! Do _not_ shoot Butch—we're going to handle this like adults!"

He hung up. Sylvia placed her phone in the back pocket of her jeans. Harvey and Jim were eyeing her expectantly; they had listened in on the last portion of the conversation.

"Who's Tiffany?" Harvey asked curiously.

"A friend of mine," said Sylvia with a smile. "She's taking my apartment since I'm moving into the Falcone Mansion."

"What's the meeting at four about?" Jim questioned.

"Business," She quipped, getting to her feet. "I'll see you all later."

She placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, patted both men on the shoulder, and then headed out the door.

**Chapter 2: Jim Asks For A Favor**

Tiffany and Sylvia had history. Typical Gotham history, at that. Long story short: Tiffany's fiancé, Burke Drifas, had stepped up to the plate to contest Penguin. Sylvia found out, tortured him with every intention of keeping him alive until she found out that Burke was raping and beating his own fiancée every single night: His fiancée, Tiffany Rubberdale. She sentenced him to death. He was thrown off the pier where he drowned in his own blood and tears, sinking to the bottom of Gotham Lake. Tiffany was appreciative (after the shock wore off) and since then, she was grateful for Sylvia's intervention.

This unconventional meeting had unexpectedly ended up becoming a friendship in which Tiffany started working for Sylvia at the former club named _Oswald's_ as a bartender and once Sylvia was given the club, Tiffany had become her second-in-command. For the longest time, Tiffany was living in a halfway house to hide from Drifas' bitter associates as they held her responsible for his death (only because they didn't know that it was Sylvia who orchestrated his demise). Now that Penguin was King of Gotham, the Drifas fans dove underground and Tiffany was free to go where she wanted without fear of reprisal.

Due to their history and friendship, Sylvia offered her the apartment; Tiffany took it happily.

She and Sylvia toasted the occasion with aged wine. The last of Tiffany's furniture was placed gingerly on the ground by one of Oswald's most loyal soldiers, Gabe, who joined the girls in the kitchen for a drink.

They shared some laughs, good times; Sylvia exchanged her jeans for a black, knee-length cocktail dress; and when four o'clock approached, Gabe and Sylvia left. She rode in the passenger seat while he drove.

"How's your day been so far?" Gabe asked conversationally—polite as always.

"Decent," Sylvia answered. "Yours?"

"Same, I guess," He said, shrugging.

It was silent in the car, but not one of those uncomfortable silences that one just desperately wanted to break. Rain tapped the windshield rhythmically, and the car engine made a decent hum.

"Do you have any hobbies, Gabriel?" Sylvia asked interestedly as she crossed her bare ankles on the floorboard, reclining back in the seat.

Gabe stopped at the light; his fingers drummed the steering wheel in no particular beat. The usual droopiness of his face became animated when she asked about his personal interests.

"I like reading the newspaper," Gabe commented, glancing upward through the windshield.

"Is that it?"

"Mostly. Normally, I just work."

"Do you like your job?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Do you?"

Sylvia smiled coyly: "Do I what?"

"Do you like your job?" asked Gabe politely.

"It's not a job if you like what you do. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I guess so."

"You do a lot of guesswork," She teased.

Gabe allowed himself a small smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a secret that Gabe enjoyed her company. He was an underling; She was his boss' fiancée. But Sylvia rarely hardened the lines; she was a casual woman, and liked things to stay informal for the most part.

"Do you have any family?" Sylvia asked.

"None yet."

"Do you want one?"

""Not really."

"Too much trouble?"

"Too expensive," Gabe admitted, grinning at her modestly. "Marriage, kids—I don't think I'm cut out for that type of commitment. Gotham ain't a good place for it, anyway, you know."

"Only if you get complacent," Sylvia said congenially. She glanced out the window: "Gotham isn't perfect. But it has its moments."

"Sun never shines here," Gabe noted, glancing up at the sky.

"Well, it doesn't shine in Alaska, but people still raise families there," Sylvia pointed out.

"Point taken, Miss G."

She grinned broadly at him as the traffic started flowing once more. Motorists, bicyclists, pedestrians alike seemed sluggishly rolling down the streets. The heat was rising in the car and wordlessly, Gabe rolled down the windows. A soft, cool breeze kissed Sylvia's face; her ginger locks moved with the wind.

Gabe smelled her perfume, clearly, and he complimented it.

"Smells like it might rain," Gabe muttered, once more looking up at the sky. It certainly looked like it—the clouds had become full and gray; the sun barely peeked from behind them, shyly dodging from view.

"Petrichor."

Gabe furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

"It's the word that describes the smell of rain," She informed. "The smell is created by an oil that is released by certain plants. When it rains, the oil is released into the air. That's why people say they can 'smell rain'."

Gabe continued driving and said under his breath, "Smart girl…"

More silence followed. Sylvia shifted in her seat, smoothing down her dress.

Sylvia never used to be a dress/skirt person. She had avoided them all of her teenage years, and most of her adult life. However, she liked how the people in the room responded to her presence when she'd walk into a room, showing off her legs. The soft freckles contrasted beautifully on her pale complexion; the heels made her calves pop, and the dress itself showed off her more feminine assets.

Oswald's confession that he liked seeing her wear dresses, skirts, and heels had become her motivation to retrieve any reaction from him. When he saw her, his eyes would light up in the slightest fraction of a second, a quirk of a small, sly smile on those thin lips—and the proud expression always hid what truly simmered beneath the surface: His lust, his desire...his deepest love for the rose among the weeds, the diamond among pennies.

Gabe escorted Sylvia through the mansion; Nameless thugs greeted her politely; those who knew Sylvia smiled and greeted her casually.

The 4pm meeting was being held in the dining hall, already taking place. Inside was a table that stretched from one side of the room to the other, allowing many guests to sit around it. Oswald sat in the seat that Falcone used to occupy, in front of the roaring fireplace. In front of him were Butch Gilzean, Victor Zsasz, and the late Italian mob's hitman, Tommy Bones. Sylvia's clicking heels on the linoleum alerted everyone in the room to her presence; when they saw her, they stood, including Oswald, being the gentleman that he was.

Gabe left shortly after she'd entered the room and she sat beside Oswald on his left-hand side, everyone following suit. He smiled happily at her.

"You look beautiful, as always," Oswald noted, his eyes taking in her flattering attire. He placed his hand on the table, palm facing up; she took it and he squeezed gently.

Their hands remained on the surface of the table. Butch, Tommy Bones and Victor noticed this and exchanged glances, but Oswald and Sylvia remained unaffected. Oswald's attention was on her for the moment.

He asked sincerely, "How was the move?"

"Easy enough," Sylvia answered, leaning back in her chair. "Some of Tiffany's furniture didn't make it out of her old house. The moving companies say they're going to pay for the damages—'money back guarantee', per the contract; she doesn't seem to mind that her shit is all scratched, but I'm going tomorrow to make sure it gets taken care of."

As she spoke, Victor Zsasz remained nonchalant. While Butch appeared vexed by Sylvia's presence, the professional hitman had little to no reaction. He and Sylvia had a few run-ins long before this time, and they'd reached something of a tolerance for one another, even if they disagreed on a few things such as their preferences by which a person should be killed: Victor liked guns; Sylvia loved knives.

Butch eyed Sylvia from across the table, looking like he might have something to say. Sylvia noticed this.

"Hi, Butchy," She said, smirking. "How are you doing?"

"So-so," He answered coolly.

Victor stood behind him, hands on either side of the chair. Butch held a notebook in front of him, and he flipped the page. The meeting had already started, but Sylvia had a tendency of running fashionably late, particularly when she was caught up with her brother. Either way, her tardiness wasn't acknowledged by Oswald.

"Gregor Miles," Butch continued calmly, reading the name off the notebook page. "He's three-thousand dollars behind in his payments, been trying to pay it back for the past year, but so far, no attempts have been made."

Victor added amusedly, "His excuse is that he has bills to pay."

Butch glanced up at Victor: "We all have bills to pay."

Victor informed Oswald in the same amused tone, "Don Falcone gave him three-thousand dollars to keep the loan sharks from killing him. Gregor said he could pay him back, but…"

"And what does he say now?" Oswald questioned coolly.

No one tried to answer on the man's behalf. Sylvia rested her chin in her other hand, looking around the room with little enthusiasm.

"There's your answer, babe," She said sardonically, gesticulating to the quiet audience.

Oswald smiled sarcastically at her comment, but she wasn't wrong. Gregor wasn't the only one who thought they didn't owe the Penguin anything now that Falcone was out of the picture. What debt they owed Falcone they now owed Penguin. It was this last bit that many were hard of hearing.

"Word around town is," Butch said slowly, looking up from the notebook, "Gregor is doing more than a few odd jobs. He has his own shop down in the Narrows."

"What is he selling?" Tommy Bones asked curiously.

"Nothing good."

Victor cleared his throat intentionally; everyone in the room looked up at him indicatively.

"Rumors are that he's gone in the business of human trafficking. Girls, in particular," He stated coolly, the look of disgust seated into his face.

Sylvia felt her face become suddenly hot. Her blood boiled beneath her skin; her jaw tightened. Oswald looked down to see that her hand tightly held his.

"Well, it's a good marketing trade," Tommy Bones commented pointedly. "People pay top dollar for—"

Sylvia was halfway out of her seat at the suggestion before she felt Oswald's hand leave her own and settle on her thigh. He gave her a meaningful look; she gritted her teeth, settling back into her seat.

"We will not be participating in human trafficking." Oswald stated coldly. "It's an abhorrent trade."

Tommy Bones muttered a quick apology while Victor was grinning ear-to-ear. Oswald looked at Butch pointedly and the latter continued to go down the list of all the people who had a debt to be collected.

Leon Mortzen: Fifty grand.

Digger Biden: ten grand and some change.

Dolores Reese: She owed Falcone a favor, and part of a cattle ranch (whatever that was about).

Tommy Bones chuckled while stroking his beard, "Do favors roll over from one person to the other?"

Butch said humorously, "I don't think it works that way. I mean, Falcone may not be in the business, but he's still alive. He could ask for that favor later on down the road."

"What's the nature of the favor?" Tommy questioned, leaning slightly to the right. "Is it like 'I-got-you-a-date-so-now-you-gotta-get-me-one' kind of favor or is it 'you-got-rid-of-my-ex-so-let-me-buy-you-a-drink' kind of favor?"

Victor said seriously, "It's 'You-killed-my-boss-so-now-I-owe-you-my-life', that kind of favor."

Victor's tone was edgy; obviously, the hitman didn't have much of a tolerance for the bigger fella. Not that Sylvia could blame him; she still wanted to tear out his eyeballs after the human trafficking comment.

Butch continued cautiously as he glanced between Victor and Tommy Bones: "We're looking at a lot of debt to collect, Boss."

"I say we just kidnap all of them," Sylvia mused halfheartedly, "and put them all in a room together. We let them outbid each other; the highest bidder gets to live. The others die: simple."

Butch raised his eyebrows at the idea; Tommy Bones shifted in his chair as far away as possible from her. Oswald smiled amusedly at Sylvia's approach before looking to Victor for his opinion.

"Honestly, Chief," said Victor, smiling widely, "I like her idea. A little torture, a few threatening observations. These people value their cars and houses as high as fifty-grand. They'd probably pay up to live."

"And if they don't," sighed Sylvia darkly, "We'll just take everything to bank, gather what we can on collateral, and give whatever is left of the bodies to the black market. I hear they're paying top dollar for kidneys and hearts."

Tommy stared at Sylvia and scooted his chair a little further away from her. Sylvia smirked at his reaction.

"Ambitious thinking," Oswald commented, smirking at her. "But a little too ambitious, I think. We are looking to collect, not burn bridges."

"Hmmm," Sylvia sighed. "You're probably right, problem-solver that you are."

"And you're a wrecking ball," Tommy Bones muttered.

"Damn straight—I could kill you before you even knew what was happening," Sylvia said dangerously.

"Yeah right."

"Try me."

Tommy scoffed but Victor said pointedly, "Careful, man. She can kill you regardless—if she wants you to feel it, you'll feel every second."

"What—you and her go on a killing contract together or something?" Tommy said skeptically.

Simultaneously, Victor and Sylvia answered: "Yes."

Tommy gave both of them a nervous glance each before he silenced.

"What about Ogden Barker?" Butch questioned.

"Who the fuck is that?" Sylvia asked incredulously.

"In for seventy grand, plus two months' vig, 250 and change. Says he owes Falcone; Falcone is gone—so his debt is 'forfeit'."

"Well, we can't have him saying that," Oswald said pointedly. "What if everyone started saying that? There would be anarchy."

The door to the room opened and one of the homely servants dressed in a tuxedo strolled on in. He glanced at Sylvia politely before he stood readily at Oswald's side. The latter took notice.

"What is it?" Oswald questioned.

The servant leaned into him and whispered, "Mr. Gordon is here to see you."

Oswald smiled and said happily, "Splendid."

Sylvia and the others looked up and over at the entrance where Jim Gordon stepped in as Oswald stood to his feet and greeted him halfway. They shook hands.

"Jim, my dear old friend!"

Jim didn't play around as he said seriously, "We need to talk."

They exchanged meaningful glances before Jim tilted his head ever so slightly to the side to pardon the remaining guests. Oswald turned to look at everyone else and ordered them to leave. While Victor, Tommy Bones, and Butch left the room, Sylvia remained sitting, looking at Jim.

"You're not in uniform," Sylvia noted coolly.

"You're in a dress," Jim returned with equal nonchalance.

"Loeb kicked you out for good, didn't he? That's why you were extra grumpy today."

Jim sat opposite of her, ignoring her comment (regardless of its accuracy). Oswald observed their interaction, as always with an air of amusement. Often times, the two Gordons mirrored each other—both had nasty tempers, and each of them could retort in the same brusque mannerism. If not for the year's difference, Sylvia and Jim could have been twins.

Oswald sat on his throne; Jim straightened in his seat and fixed his tie uncomfortably. Meanwhile, Sylvia rested her face in one of her hands, relaxed. As always, Jim was right to the point.

"I need a favor," He said briskly, looking at Oswald. "I figure you owe me one."

Oswald chuckled, "I do? I'm always happy to help you, Jim, but I don't recall—"

"—The hospital? I saved you from Maroni's men."

"But I was only there because you arrested me…"

"For attempted murder," Jim reminded. With a hint of disdain, he added, "Remind me again why I let you go."

"Enlightened friendship. I'd call us even, but let's not quibble. I'm so happy you came to me for help, Jim. The answer is 'yes'. Your wish is granted."

"But you don't know what it is yet."

Oswald glanced at Sylvia knowingly, then back at Jim, saying, "You want Loeb fired and old job back, no?"

Jim looked taken aback by the fact but agreed that he was right.

"For a good friend like you," said Oswald smoothly, "It can be done. If you're sure that's what you want."

"I'm sure."

"May I ask why? Police work in Gotham is such a thankless job."

"Good pension."

"What does Lee think?"

Jim said flatly, "Who…"

Sylvia smirked when Oswald looked at Jim like the latter should know better. Jim never gave the King of Gotham enough credit.

"Are you going to help me or not?" Jim demanded.

"Relax. I already said I'd help."

Jim glanced at him and Sylvia before he stood up and started walking away. Oswald looked at Sylvia, saying, "He is so brusque, isn't he?"

Then quite suddenly, Oswald slammed his hand on the table saying quickly, "While I think on it, perhaps you could do a favor for me in return."

Jim slowly turned on his heel and appeared as though he immediately regretted his decision to come to Oswald for help. It wouldn't have been the first time, and Sylvia could recognize that reluctant expression from three-thousand miles away. Expectantly, Jim stood still as Oswald stood, and approached him.

"I know how you hate to owe favors. I am having a small business dispute with a friend of mine, Ogden Barker," He said calmly. "You have a persuasive personality. Perhaps you could talk to him."

Jim looked at Sylvia, who had no noticeable reaction to the request. He approached Oswald saying quietly, "You want me to collect a debt for you?"

"I want you to prove that our friendship is a real one," Oswald countered, "based on trust and equity."

"That's fair…No. Sorry. I can't help you. Congratulations on all of your success."

Oswald was obviously disappointed, but as Jim walked away, he called after him: "Don't say 'no' now, Jim. Sleep on it!"

**Chapter 3: A Lesson in Self-Control**

The door closed as Jim starkly left the room.

Oswald glanced at Sylvia, his expressive face showing his malcontent.

"Want me to talk to him?" Sylvia offered. "Can't say it will do much good. He wasn't exactly in the best mood earlier today—passive-aggressive at best."

"Don't worry about him," He assured, reclaiming his throne. "He'll change his mind."

"You're not wrong."

She folded her hands atop the other; the middle finger of her right fiddled with the diamond-crested engagement band on the ring finger of her left hand.

After a beat, she asked as an afterthought: "So, assuming you're going to let my brother have Ogden Barker, what would you like to do about the other ankle-biters that owe you money?"

"We'll have Victor and Butch talk to them first," Oswald said softly, not looking at her.

"And if they don't like what they have to say? You know what _I_ want to do…to them, at least."

"I do, and normally, I wouldn't stop you. But these days, I have to question your self-control."

"What is there to question? I have it under control."

" _Do_ you?" Oswald countered. "Your little escapade a few days ago at the bank says differently. Your stunt had the Drays in an outrage."

"I didn't know it was _their_ money," Sylvia said defensively, leaning back in her seat. "There's not a sign outside that says 'untouchable money, none shall pass'; and just so you know, I didn't even take that much…just a few hundreds."

"You injured their security staff."

"The security guards are a joke—a bunch of fat lards with guns…they couldn't defend a doughnut shop even if their Christmas bonuses depended on it."

"One of them is in the hospital."

"He tried to taser me!" Sylvia pouted, crossing her arms. "And he'll be fine in a week—maybe sooner. I didn't hurt him near as much as I wanted to. Now if that's not self-control, I don't know what is!"

Oswald rested his face in his hand and looked at her pointedly: "I didn't authorize you to hit any banks, Sylvia."

"I was bored."

"You've yet to give me a good excuse."

"It's a fucking _bank_ ," Sylvia said aggrievedly. "There are **many** like it. Why are you laying into me right now?"

"It belongs to one of the Families. That is why. I made a deal with the owners that it would not happen again—unless they cross me."

"Would it be insubordination if I said I was acting on your behalf?"

"You're impulsive—"

"—I prefer 'spontaneous'—"

"—Reckless—"

"—Hey, not all of us are builders and problem solvers. _You_ know that I am not." Sylvia said flippantly.

Oswald's eyes narrowed, and his lips were pressed tightly together. Sylvia leaned back in her chair, raising her head in defiance. He was getting pissed off, and she could tell it just by the way he was looking at her. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

"If you continue to uproot establishments, Pigeon, this empire will not hold," Oswald cautioned.

"I robbed _one_ fucking bank. It was only one!"

"Regardless, would you mind running it by me the next time you decide to uproot a building's charming existence?" Oswald questioned sternly.

She subtly flinched at his tone before she submitted: "Fine. I'll run it by you next time, okay?"

"Thank you," said Oswald softly.

Sylvia cleared her throat—getting past the quibble: "Let's say neither Victor nor Butch can get through to these people. _And_ they aren't intimidated by anyone else you send their way…"

Oswald gazed at Sylvia, attempting his hardest not to allow himself to smile at the earnest puppy dog eyes she was giving him.

Oddly enough, she reminded him of Fish Mooney—she owned the club and possessed the same commanding authority…the only thing she was missing, Oswald realized, was that snake-like charm.

Maroni had been right about Sylvia and Fish's roles being identical. In some ways, Sylvia _was_ **Oswald's** Fish Mooney.

"If they don't submit, you may do what you do best." Oswald said finally.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

Sylvia slowly stood on the chair.

He watched her gingerly climbed onto the table and crawl towards him.

Her movements were delicate but calculating. The contours of her dress held tightly and firmly to her curves; the low dip of her neckline fell and gave him a beautiful sight of the soft, creamy flesh that were her perky breasts.

Seeing her on the table, crawling towards him like a seductress, Oswald was taken back by it at first but his lips quirked into a sly little smile when she sat her butt on the table's edge, dangling her legs in front of him. She slackened her feet so her black heels fell with a clatter on the wooden floor.

Oswald sat forward to the edge of his seat and hiked the hem of her dress up so it pooled around her waist, bearing visibility of the white lace panties she wore underneath.

"I can make it a whole spectacle," Sylvia breathed. "I have it all planned out. I could record it for you if you'd like that."

As she spoke, Oswald glided his hands from her knees and up her thighs, his attention divided; his eyes followed his own fingers, admiring how the inside of her thighs quivered slightly at his inviting touch. The other half of his attention reconciled with the sweet, devilish purr that was Sylvia's voice.

"One small room...tight-knit. A few chairs, some tape and rope—no problem. I'll have them all begging to pay what they owe you...maybe a little more," Sylvia purred as a dark chuckle escaped her lips. ( _How like Miss Mooney, indeed,_ thought Oswald.)

"Skip the useless interrogation, Ozzie. It's such a waste of time..." Sylvia grazed the back of her hand down the side of his face, two fingers slid under his chin to tilt his head upwards so that his eyes met hers. "Let your Pigeon go to work."

It was a pet name he had made up for her, and so frequently when he uttered it, she would light up like a firework. Hearing Sylvia use her own moniker in such a way sparked a fire in his belly; and clearly, the desire he felt was mutual.

Just the thought of murdering on his behalf had made Sylvia's breath shallow. Her eyes reflected brightly in the orange light emitting from the fireplace.

Oswald had the ultimate weapon perched on the table before him, such a beautiful weapon she was. How soft her skin felt as he circled his thumbs into the muscle of her inner thighs; how gently she bit her bottom lip when he stood, his height towering over her sitting frame.

James Gordon didn't know just how sadistic his little sister was—he'd likely succumb to a heart attack if he found out. Only _Oswald_ knew the **real** Sylvia Gordon; the knowledge of this shot a pleasurable tingle down his spine.

"I can even take care of Ogden Barker for you if you want. You know _I_ have a 'persuasive personality' too."

"I couldn't deny that even if I wanted to," Oswald reassured as she wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him closer so that he stood between her legs.

The minx bent her knees, her bare feet rubbed down the sides of his pants; the little smile she flashed made Oswald shiver. Her red hair cascaded in waves down her back and shoulders, and she was biting her bottom lip—Sylvia was _taunting_ him. And goddamn, was she good at it!

Oswald leaned into her, holding the fragile bone of her jaw as he kissed her softly. Gentle, he was, at first. Sylvia responded hungrily, pressing her tongue against the line where his lips met, demanding passion. He didn't return it so ferociously.

"You have an _unnecessary_ amount of self-restraint, Mr. Penguin," Sylvia said with an undertone of sexual frustration.

"And _you_ lack a great deal of it," Oswald remarked, smirking at her knowingly. "But we have been over this before."

" **Ooh** ," Sylvia taunted.

She hooked her ankles behind his waist, dug her heels into the small of his back, pulling him closer. Sylvia wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him against her—chest to chest. In order to keep his balance, Oswald braced his hands on the surface of the table, letting out a small 'mm' when she shoved her mouth against his.

He moved Sylvia on her back, and she chuckled darkly when she heard him unbuckle and unzip his pants. Eager to feel any part of him, Sylvia reached a hand down between them, and licked her lips when her fingers came into contact with his hard-on. So full, so thick…so ready.

"So much for restraint," Sylvia said playfully.

"You have **no** room to talk," Oswald chastised but the scolding wasn't lost on her.

She was undeniably wet; her panties were soaked before they even started this foreplay. Thinking of murder—torturing these people who had claimed no loyalty to the true King of Gotham had her going; a bloodhound, his own personal pet he could order to attack just about anyone—And she would do so with little hesitation!

Sylvia inhaled sharply when Oswald slipped his hand into her underwear, cupping her sex; she was eagerly awaiting his touch. The mischievous smile that graced his lips was the result of feeling the tight walls of her pussy immediately clench around his two fingers when he slid them inside of her.

Sylvia unbuttoned his jacket and vest, muttering through gritted teeth, "Goddamn _buttons_ …" before she finally was able to push the fabric off his shoulders. Oswald straightened, shrugging the clothes off onto the floor, careless. The subject of his attentions and affection was the woman whose eyes were only for him, and him alone.

He rejoined her at the table, slipping between her legs again. This time, Oswald touched her just outside the lacy material of her panties, wet with her desire and need. When she attempted to sit up, to gather him back in her clutches, Oswald pushed her down, his fingers spread between the valley of her breasts.

"Let me up!" Sylvia pouted. "I want to touch you!"

"Patience, Pet," Oswald commanded.

"You're such a hypocrite. You want this **just** as badly as I do!"

Oswald grinned shamelessly.

After all, she called him on it. He _was_ being hypocritical; he could feel his heart hammering away at his chest, and it took every ounce of will power _not_ to take Sylvia for himself. But he knew a beautiful redheaded creature like Sylvia deserved to be teased and played with, to the point she was left begging; only when she was desperately pleading for his cock would Oswald give her what they both longed for.

It warranted patience and incredible amount of self-discipline on his part not to give Sylvia what she demanded initially (god only knew just how demanding she could be) but it was always worth the wait.

She wiggled her hips in an effort to tempt him.

"Be still."

"But Pengy…!" She pouted.

Oswald rolled his eyes at her but did his best to hold back a smile that threatened to override his command. The little pet name…it was _her_ pet name. He would allow no one else to call him that. But Sylvia was the unspoken exception.

"Will you _please_ just—" Sylvia protested.

"Hush," Oswald ordered sternly. "Now do what I say, Pet."

She retracted whatever comeback she had ready, pressing her lips tightly together.

She'd always said it: 'You're my lover first, and my boss second'. The lover, he was, but it was nice to incorporate the latter during moments when she was feeling most demanding. Sylvia was his fiancée—his beautiful, blushing bride-to-be—but the fact still remained: Sylvia still _worked_ for him. In moments like this, Oswald used his title as her employer to his advantage (and she never once complained—in fact, she _preferred_ to be, not his business partner, but his employee).

Satisfied by her nonverbal submission, Oswald wordlessly lifted the hem of her dress above her stomach, exposing the naked flesh of her belly, and creamy thighs. Her chest, cheeks, and neck were all the same color: flushed pink. So perfect, yet not so flawless—small faded scars she'd acquired from scrapes and firefights in the past, and light freckles dusted her skin.

Oswald grazed his fingertips along the outer edges of her panty lines, biting his own lip when she let out a shaky, needy keen.

Her sounds could spur him into a frenzy. She could sound like an innocent schoolgirl, or a devout succubus. And what she could do with that mouth alone…

" _Baby_ , please…"

Oswald ignored her. He hooked his thumbs underneath the waistband of her panties and slid them down her legs; she instinctively lifted them, and the lacy barrier slipped off her ankles. He pocketed them, grinning down at her, meeting her eyes.

"Imagine what this will feel like on the night we become husband and wife," He said breathlessly. "I'll enjoy spending the rest of my life making you beg."

He slid three fingers up between the glistening folds of her sex; the muscles of her thighs quivered involuntarily. She lifted her hands to touch any part of him.

"Put your hands back down on the table."

She growled, lowering her hands back to the table and inhaled sharply as he rubbed her clit, rotating the pads of his fingers around the swollen bundle of nerves.

"If you're trying to teach me a lesson," Sylvia managed shakily, "in self-restraint, I…I think I've grasped your meaning…"

"I'm sure you have," Oswald patronized, "but there is no harm in re-educating you."

He admired how her fingers which held the edge of the table gripped until her knuckles turned whiter than the rest of her body. Even the dust of freckles on the back of her hands disappeared.

How many times had he seen her sprawled out, her sex on display for him—Oswald had lost count, but never did he tire of it. He loved every piece of her, and every part of her called out to him. If she had been a siren, as a sailor, he would have gladly wrecked the ship and sacrifice his entire crew to be with her.

And she was his. His little destroyer.

The very thought, each time it arose, made the animal inside of him growl hungrily, possessing him. A woman like Sylvia could make a man's heart stop, but then make it beat all over again. What deadly things she could accomplish with just her fingers alone—and yet, she was crumbling into a sweaty mess because of his touch.

He repeated the simple gesture, teasing her sex with the titillation of his fingers, watching Sylvia's eyes shut tightly and her jaw clench. Beads of perspiration dotted and lined her collar bone and forehead.

She wanted to protest; she wanted to object. But Oswald knew her too well; she _loved_ this, every second and every moment he spent playing with her.

Her painfully quiet exhales and sharp intakes of breath, the way her lips parted, and her eyebrows furrowed as she experienced every sensation with the responsiveness of a virgin—all of it riled him up.

"Please," She whispered. "Ozzie, _please_..."

"You're doing so well," Oswald praised softly, sliding two fingers inside her wet walls; the heel of his wrist caused friction against her clit and her thigh muscles tensed. "God, I love seeing you like this."

Her back arched when he curled his knuckles, fingering her deeply in the place she needed him most. She let out a whimper. Sylvia opened her eyes—it looked as though she was suffering from a drug-induced experience. Lust didn't do this to her. **He** did.

Hearing her slutty moans, he'd waited long enough. He withdrew his fingers; the head of his cock barely grazed the slit of her pussy before Sylvia's back arched eagerly once more.

"I love when you anticipate it," He drawled, grinning down at her.

"Oswald, I am **this** close to putting on a strap-on and fucking you myself," Sylvia threatened, glaring at him.

"Promise?" Oswald said, smirking at her.

"Jesus Christ, just fuck me!"

Oswald grabbed her hips, and shoved himself inside of her, all the way to the hilt. Her high-pitched, needy moan escaped her lips in approval.

A series of moans echoed in the room, bouncing off the stone walls. The table, however balanced and stable it proved to be, rocked, and creaked with the rhythm of Oswald's thrusts and Sylvia's responsive hips. The candelabras on the table fell over; the chairs that sat just against the furniture were pushed back, scraping the wooden floor.

Oswald straightened, lifting her legs up, ankles on his shoulders; in this position, he penetrated deeper; Sylvia keened in newfound appreciation, her lips parted fully open, and her eyelids fluttered in pure bliss. With the force of his thrusts, Sylvia's breasts bounced up and down, a pleasing sight to behold.

He could feel himself getting closer. Sylvia was not too far behind him. She was a moaning mess, and he'd let out his grunts and groans with little restraint. His movements became hurried, sloppy and she was begging him to come inside of her. He pushed himself deep inside of her, each thrust harder than the last, propelling over the edge; her muscles tightly grasped around his cock, exacerbating his strong orgasm. He moaned when it hit, spilling his cum inside of her; Sylvia shuddered, enjoying the second orgasm in soft, rippling waves. With his hands cradling Sylvia's hips, Oswald leaned forward and captured her mouth with his own. She responded eagerly.

He slowly pulled out of her and the two of them both moaned in satisfaction. He fixed himself, pulling up his pants and rebuttoned his vest and jacket; Sylvia remained on the table, watching him.

"You know you look sexy putting your clothes on as you do taking them off," Sylvia observed aloud, sitting up.

Oswald chuckled, but the small pink that flushed his cheeks revealed his modesty.

Sylvia brushed a hand through her hair.

After watching him for a minute, she said sincerely, "I _am_ sorry that the Drays gave you shit because of the bank—had I known that it would cause you problems, I wouldn't have done it."

"In all fairness, Pidge, I should not have been so quick to reprimand."

"Meaning?"

"You are right," Oswald said, holding his hand out to her; she took it, and slid off the table. "I'm the builder, and you are my destroyer. To force you to be anything else is unfair to you."

"Let's make a compromise, then. I'll try to practice a bit more self-control—if you give me first dibs on contracts—like what Falcone did for Victor," Sylvia asked sweetly.

"I have a feeling this marriage will be full of compromise."

"That's all marriage is, isn't that what people say? If you think ours will be any different, we might as well call it off right now."

"I have no intention of doing that."

"Neither do I."

There was a shift in the dynamic of conversation as Oswald asked, "Did Jim seem like he was behaving differently than usual?"

"Yeah—You're not 'Oswald Cobblepot' anymore; You're running the Underworld. Of course, he would behave differently." Sylvia added as an afterthought, "I may have also told my brother that you're amazing in the sack."

Oswald looked at her with widened eyes.

"What, he asked what I saw in you. I told him you were sophisticated, well-dressed, you had the intelligence that borders on a level of a psychotic genius. He was being nosy, so I tossed it in there."

"I don't know if I should be feeling embarrassed or flattered," Oswald muttered.

"Well, you should be feeling both. And those only begin to describe the many reasons why I love you."

Oswald smiled in response: "I love you too, Pigeon."

"I know," Sylvia said, beaming.

"Would I be correct in assuming he's still opposing the wedding?"

"Yes, but I'm not surprised, to be honest."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"It does—but it won't stop me from marrying you. Now, shall I go fetch Tommy Bones, Victor, and the Gorilla? I can't imagine we're done with the meeting."

"Please," Oswald said, nodding at her suggestion.

Sylvia approached him, and readjusted his tie, fitting it snugly in his vest. He watched her with adoring eyes; her fingers lingered longer than needed, and she suddenly kissed him passionately; Oswald eagerly reciprocated it. One thing started leading to another, the kiss becoming hot and heavy.

"I'll call the cavalry," said Sylvia, breathless.

Reluctantly, she broke the kiss, smiling at him apologetically, placing her hand on his chest, and pushing him away from her. She knew if they'd continue at that pace, she'd be back on the table, begging for him all over again. And while he would happily indulge in her desire, there was still business that needed to be tended to. Before she turned on her heel to do gather the forces back into the room, Oswald held fast to the hand on his chest, and it forced her to stumble back slightly.

He kissed her one last time: soft, but meaningful. And she returned it just as lovingly.

Oswald watched her walk out of the room with a great deal of satisfaction, knowing that she craved him just as much as he desired her. She'd become his weakness; and he had become her strength. And what they called that was an Exchange of Power, something that frequently happened between a King and his Queen. And in this case, it would have been inevitable.

**Chapter 4: The Gordon-Penguin Jealousy Complex**

Tiffany and Sylvia sat at a table on the balcony inside _Lean on Vee_. While the fair blonde flipped through the ledger, discussing with her boss about the finances, Sylvia watched the performers on stage attempt to get their steps aligned with one another.

There were four women altogether on the platform, wearing matching black and red feathered dresses. While these performers had their shit together more than most entertainers, Sylvia was prepared to pick apart their dance. Most of the time, she needn't create the choreography—they came with their own, but Sylvia wasn't impressed with tonight's girls. Tiffany had scouted, and all she'd found were amateurs.

"I restocked the liquor at the bar," reported Tiffany, drumming the point of her pen aimlessly on the notepad. "I paid the electric company the usual premium; they've been insistent on raising their prices. Might have to switch to another one—inflation is a bitch. Other than that, everything is paid for this month; all other expenses become profits in the long run, I think."

Sylvia glanced at Tiffany who peered up at her to make sure she was been attended. She smiled apologetically.

"You're practically running this club yourself," Sylvia said finally, breaking her silence.

Tiffany said humbly, "Coming from you, that's a relief."

"Well, it's true. You pay the bills, find the entertainment for me, and you manage the staff—half the time, I don't have to be here."

"You're the face of the club. I couldn't manage this on my own."

" _I_ used to say that," Sylvia noted, pointing at her. "But look where I am now."

"And look where you aren't," Tiffany joked.

"Meaning _what_?"

Tiffany bit her lip, thinking she may have overstepped her boundaries. However, Sylvia didn't appear affronted by the comment; she picked the magenta-colored umbrella from her drink, twirling it between two fingers and sipped on her martini.

Tiffany cleared her throat saying boldly, "You're here at the club, instead of at the mansion. I figured you of all people would prefer to be _there_ instead of _here_."

"Interesting. Why would you assume that?"

"People are calling you the 'Queen of Gotham'…because of Penguin, because he calls himself the ' _King_ of Gotham'. Wouldn't a Queen rule better on the throne than among the peasants?"

Sylvia dropped the umbrella on the table, smirking at Tiffany. She distractedly glanced at the crew on the stage before she leaned towards the blonde.

She said practically, "If I don't spend time with the people I'm allegedly 'ruling', I won't know what the people want. If I don't know what the people want or need, then how would I know how to rule the kingdom? Besides, between you and me, I don't see myself as a queen."

"Your subordinates do. You're practically royalty."

"That's sweet of you to say," said Sylvia, patting Tiffany's wrist.

"It's not just me either. Your men see you as a queen too—they do what you say, when you say without hesitation."

"That's because I _pay_ them to do that. Just as I pay you to work for me."

"I respect you."

"Mm."

Sylvia was certain that Tiffany liked her enough. She could even believe that Tiffany respected her, saw her as a friend, especially after what she'd done for her regarding her abusive ex, but respect in general was hard to come by. She'd seen what Oswald had to do in order to get it.

In an effort to convince her, Tiffany persuaded, "They _do_ respect you."

"Do they?" Sylvia challenged. "Respect and fear are easily confused. All I am to them is the Penguin's girlfriend—they fear _him_ , so they fear **me**. And if they _don't_ fear him, they're scared of my brother."

""Probably true…" Tiffany giggle. "No, I'm pretty sure they're more scared of you."

"I highly doubt that."

"Your reputation goes beyond being the Penguin's betrothed and Jim Gordon's little sister," Tiffany informed slyly. "People _know_ what you've done to the spies who've tried crossing Penguin. They know what you're capable of—I mean, you have that Gordon temper."

"You're trying to butter me up, aren't you," Sylvia said playfully, grinning broadly.

Tiffany sighed in defeat, and took a drink of her margarita saying, "You know, you're a _lot_ more perceptive of everyone else than you are of yourself?"

Sylvia looked at her, confused, but Tiffany didn't elaborate on the fact. Sylvia glanced down at the stage once more, watching the women arguing about who had gotten out of step and who needed to fix their dance routine. It was becoming quite the catfight as one girl pushed another girl, and they were all on the stage, pouncing on each other. Like children.

"How _is_ your brother?" Tiffany asked curiously, drawing Sylvia's attention back.

Rolling her eyes, Sylvia answered, "Stubborn—as always."

"Did you talk to him like you said you would?"

"I did… ** _HEY_**!"—Tiffany jumped as Sylvia addressed the aggressive women on the stage—"Anything you break, you're paying for!"

"Yes, ma'am!" One of the lead dancers shakily responded, then turned to chastise her fellow performers.

Redirecting the conversation back to its original premise, Tiffany continued with concern, "He didn't change his mind?"

"No. And I doubt he will," said Sylvia coldly. "I've never seen him more determined about anything than not attending my wedding. He refuses to accept the inevitable."

"Maybe he's jealous."

Sylvia narrowed her eyes at the woman across from her: "What do you mean—'jealous'?"

Tiffany smirked: "I don't mean anything sordid. Gordon's been a part of your life forever. Your father died when you were young, right?"

"I don't see how that matters, but you've piqued my interest. Go on."

"So, he's been the only man in your life—then here comes Penguin—"

"I've had boyfriends before," interrupted Sylvia. "And he accepted _them_ …for the most part."

"Well, have you ever been engaged to a criminal before?"

"No, this is the first."

"And there's the problem," Tiffany presumed, shrugging a shoulder. "Gordon never had to share you before—above all, with a criminal. Now that he has to, he doesn't want to. Pretty sure Penguin might feel the same way, but right now, he's in your favor—he has no reason to be jealous because he _knows_ he's on your good side."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, saying, "Let me get this straight. You think Jim and Oswald are fighting over me, to get on my good side…and _that's_ why Jim is refusing to come to my wedding, because he's _jealous_?"

"It sounds ridiculous, I know."

"Wouldn't it make more sense for Jim to come to my wedding in order to get on my good side so he could win my favoritism than refusing to do what I ask which makes me like him even less?"

"Men are funny that way," scoffed Tiffany.

"That _does_ sound ridiculous…but it certainly does bring a few things to light in the past. Jim and I have argued more these days than we have ever argued before…and it always centers around Oswald."

Tiffany scratched her head and drank the last of her margarita before flagging down one of the familiar bartenders, the younger one named Henry. He had dark brown eyes, brown hair, and a ghost of a smile that seemed constantly plastered to his face. The latter dropped by and gave Tiffany a refresher, and placed a second martini in front of Sylvia, who thanked him.

After flashing a flirtatious smile towards Tiffany, Henry departed.

"Jealous or not," said Sylvia finally, "Both of them are going to have to learn to get along. If not, they're going to drive me crazy."

Tiffany paused, then said lightly, "With men, it's an all-or-nothing. They don't want to share—familial or not."

"How do you know?"

"It's happened to me before. Back when Burke and I were together—you remember Burke, right?"

"Of course, I do—I killed him, remember?"

"Well, memory's a fickle thing," Tiffany stated practically. "Anyway—Burke and I had this friend, Larry, and Larry and I were pretty close. But we were just friends. Burke _hated_ how close we were. After a while, they started having this competition to 'win me over'. Burke would take me to the park after finding out Larry took me to dinner. If Larry got me a charm bracelet for my birthday, Burke got a diamond ring. And if I enjoyed my time with Larry, Burke would get angry and be jealous—and if I had a good time with Burke, Larry would be the angry one. It led to some pretty nasty fights."

"Let me guess—did one of them fly into a jealous rage?"

"On Burke's end, yeah," said Tiffany as she picked out the lime garnish wedge out of her drink and placed it on the napkin. "Burke was pissed. He didn't want my heart shared by another man."

"One would call that a reasonable reaction to be angry. Did you develop feelings for Larry?"

"Admittedly, yes." Tiffany confessed; her smile faltered.

"Did you sleep with him?"

Indignantly, she said, "Of course not!"

"Hey," Sylvia held up her hands defensively. "I had to ask. Did Burke make you choose?"

"No. Larry did."

"So, you picked the man who was hitting you day in and day out?"

"He wasn't abusive then," Tiffany murmured, embarrassed. "It doesn't matter anyway…Burke chose _for_ me."

"That's pathetic."

"May _be_ ," Tiffany sniveled. "But I'm not telling you this so you can judge me for my past, Boss. I'm telling you this because one day soon, your brother or Penguin will eventually become exhausted with competing against each other for your affections and one day, one of them will make you choose. And you'll have to—or one of them will choose _for_ you."

"The only time I will let a man dictate my choices is when I leave for the bathroom and he orders my food at a restaurant. Aside from that, it was a good story."

"It's not an easy choice to make," Tiffany said quietly.

"It's not. But it shouldn't be a choice you let another person make."

Tiffany was about to respond before Sylvia felt her phone vibrate. On the Caller ID was the name.

_Jimmy._

"Hold that thought," Sylvia told Tiffany, and she picked up the phone, answering it. "Hey."

"Vee," Jim groused.

"Have you been drinking?"

"A little." He answered groggily.

"Drunk dialing your sister—that's a new low for you." Sylvia noted, standing to her feet.

She strolled away from Tiffany to gather some privacy and leaned her back against the wall in the hallway. Tiffany rolled her eyes, realizing the conversation was going to be a long one and returned back to her book of finances and check lists.

Jim murmured, "I'm walking back."

"Walking back from where?"

"Wayne Manor."

"Why were you there?"

"I had to tell Bruce that I can't keep a promise."

"What promise?"

"I promised I would find his parents' killers."

"Oh, _that_ promise." Sylvia muttered, looking up at the ceiling.

"I can't do that when I'm not a cop."

"Sounds logical to me. And you're walking because a DUI would just be the cherry on top of your evening, right?"

Ignoring her comment, Jim said darkly, "I need you to talk me out of it."

"Talk you out of what?"

"You _know_ what."

"Hm, the Ogden Barker thing?" Sylvia recalled, bouncing her back off the wall. She strolled down the hallway, nodding her head politely to any passersby, but not vocally acknowledging them. "You really want to do it, don't you? Break the law so you can be a cop—I wouldn't see a better example of irony even if it bit me in the ass…"

" _Do not patronize me_."

"Why not?" Sylvia mocked. "How often do I get to cherish these moments? **Look alive, Jim**! Your moral compass is wavering. You're calling _me_ to talk you out of something that _I_ would do without hesitation; Now, doesn't that sound just a little insane?"

"You may have a point," Jim admitted irritably.

"Thank you for saying so, but if it makes you feel any better, I **do** pity you for your situation. I know how much being a cop means to you."

"Tell me not to do it."

"Get Lee to do that. _She's_ your moral compass. Not me."

"She knows I have the way."

"And she knows, I'm betting, you have the will."

"She can't understand."

"Hm."

"I know you can."

"Can what?"

"I know you can understand the difficult situation I'm in," Jim muttered.

In the background, there was traffic on Jim's end. He was either on a highway, walking back, or on the busy side of Gotham's backroads.

"So, _that's_ why you're calling me." Sylvia said knowingly. "You want _me_ to tell you that you are in the right, to stop you from feeling guilty for what you're about to do—because you **know** that if placed in your same situation, I would go after Barker. Well, I won't assuage your guilt; in fact, I'll be brutally honest—"

"Please, don't…I'm in _no_ mood…"

Sylvia paid no attention to his plea.

"You do realize that if you do this thing for Oswald, you _will_ have collected a debt for him, and you _will_ have done something dirty to get what you want—you know what that will mean? That will make us the _same_ , you and me."

She could hear Jim snarling. He didn't want to hear that.

For _years_ , Jim Gordon had always chastised Sylvia for her do-wrong personality, her love and passion for crime had always been a barrier between them, just as it has always been a commonality between her and Oswald (although the latter had always done crime in order to accomplish his personal goals while Sylvia just enjoyed crime in general). Despite the constant barrier, Sylvia tolerated his insufferable self-righteousness as a quirk of his, but now…here they were.

There was silence on his end as he digested her words. They were nasty things to swallow.

"What would be worse…" Sylvia began, walking down the stairs of her club.

"Vee—"

"Don't talk, James. _You_ called **me** because you want me to talk you into it—right?"

"Well—"

"Of course, you did. I know you're still competent enough to understand me—as drunk as you may be—but here it is."

"Go on."

"Which would be worse?" Sylvia continued calmly. "Not being a cop and living a calm, serene civilian life like Bullock, **or** doing this one bad thing, getting reinstated, and showing Commissioner Loeb that you _can't_ be defeated. There's the easy way, the hard way, and—as you will learn quickly—the ugly way." (She stood in front of the stage, watching the performers attempt to get their shit together.) "If you want, I can come with you—we can get Ogden Barker together. Personally, I'd like nothing more than to fry his ass with a blow torch."

Jim chuckled on the other end, and it took Sylvia by surprise: "Penguin told _me_ to talk to Barker. You'd be going against your boss."

"He said nothing about me coming along for the ride," Sylvia reminded. "Besides, Oswald and I already had a friendly chat about self-control—you don't need to know about the specifics. So, don't worry about me. If things get messy, you'd at least have some back-up—you know how _rare_ that is?"

Silence on the other line until…

"You've always had my back, Vee," said Jim solemnly. "I can honestly say that."

"Please don't tell me you're becoming a sentimental drunk. I'll hang up right now—"

"I'm not. I'm just saying…"

"Well, I already know it. Walk back into town, clear your head, come to the club. We can meet, talk details, and we'll go from there."

"Sounds good."

"Be careful on your way back. You know how Gotham is at night."

"Copy that. Love you, Vee."

"Love you too."

Sylvia hung up and she started choreographing the dancers to a better step-routine when they broke out into another squabble.

An hour later, Tiffany was scribbling in the books, sitting at the bar while speaking to the 21-year-old barkeep, Henry. The latter was smooth-talking her; he had the affluence of a body-building millionaire, and his interest in older women made Tiffany his next target. Henry was leaned over the counter, telling Tiffany about one of his escapades in Las Vegas when a gruff, dark-blonde, blue-eyed man approached her.

"You must be James Gordon," said Tiffany knowingly, smirking at him.

His rough appearance screamed 'I'M A COP' but with the lack of a badge, it was hard to call him 'Officer Gordon', even when it was tempting. He didn't look too surprised that Tiffany knew who he was, even if he didn't know who _she_ was. Then again: Tiffany worked at his sister's club, so Jim seemed to assume that everyone knew who he was.

"Can you let Vee know I'm here," Jim grunted.

"Sure. Henry, get this man a water, would you?" Tiffany asked sweetly, gesturing to Jim.

Henry nodded, winking at her before he placed a glass of H2O in front of the former cop, who sat down on a stool with a sharp exhalation. He rubbed his temples, waiting. Tiffany left shortly and came back with Sylvia who had changed out of her usual dresses and into black capris and a red, fitted long-sleeve shirt. She wore black, lace-up boots with an impressive block heel.

Sylvia gestured for Jim to follow her and he did; they sat at a table, opposite of each other: "How was your walk?"

"Long," Jim answered darkly.

He glanced at the stage where the women were performing a dance, their hips gyrated a great deal, but it seemed to hold the attention of the other club members. Sylvia crossed her arms on the slick ebony table, smiling at him.

"What have you decided?" Sylvia asked.

"No decision to make. I'm a cop."

"You want me to come?"

"Honestly? No."

"Then why meet me here?"

"Came here for a different reason. I have something else to tell you."

"Which is?"

Jim sighed, and he looked as though he was being poked with a cattle prod in order for him to expel whatever needed to come out of his mouth. When a few beats passed, and his lips curled in disgust a few times, he let out a defeated sigh.

"I want you to be happy," Jim said, his voice faltered half-way through. "I want to be happy for you, but you'll understand why I can't."

"Spit it out. While we're young, man."

"I'll attend your wedding."

She blinked, taken aback by it.

"I imagine you want something in return for this," said Sylvia coolly, interlacing her fingers together on her lap.

Jim's forehead furrowed.

Before he could respond, Sylvia stated cynically, "You've been in denial about this for _months_. Even when I was engaged, you thought Oswald and I were never going to last. And suddenly, you come to me and tell me that you're going to be _happy_ for me on my **wedding** day, that you'll even attend it. And it can't be a coincidence that you're telling me this _just_ before you've decided to collect a debt for Penguin."

Jim said defensively, "Would it suffice for me to say it's because I'm your brother?"

"No, it wouldn't. Because it's coming from you."

"You know that I _do_ want your happiness, right?"

"Hm. I realize that you view yourself as being on a very high pedestal when it comes to morale, and you like to push your ethic views on me," Sylvia responded crisply. She lifted her hands in surrender when Jim winced, adding, "But if it's any consolation, I know it comes from a good place."

Jim let out an exasperated groan.

"Often times, you fail to remember that I _know_ you, James—from _way_ back. I know you _hate_ that I am with Penguin. You hate it, loathe it, and if you had the power to do so, you would make it so that I would never have met him. And it's not just him. You can't stand the fact that I would love anyone other than you—"

"—That sounds sick, Vee—"

"I don't mean for it to be," Sylvia reassured. "Your love for me is devout, unconditional. Familial. And that's all it's ever been—thank god—but it doesn't erase the fact that you are a little possessive. And it's understandable because _I_ am all you have."

"I have Lee."

"And you had Barbara—that is, until she went batshit crazy. And you have Dr. Thompkins for now until she decides she can't deal with your crazy lifestyle, or something happens later on the down the line where she can't stand to be around you. When it comes down to it, James, you, and I are all we have, because we have learned to tolerate one another and the crazy lives we both have led…and still lead. And it's been like that for years."

"Interesting point," Jim muttered. Then abruptly, he questioned, "Wait—you think Lee will leave me?"

"I didn't say that," Sylvia said quickly. "My point is that it has been like that for years, _until now_. Things are changing. I'm going to marry Oswald. And one way or another, you will have to learn how to share me."

Jim scoffed, "You're saying I'm jealous?"

"Aren't you?"

"I'm _not_ jealous you're with Penguin."

"Oh, really? So, you _don't_ get upset when I rebuke your antiquated sense of self-righteousness and boy scout thinking in favor of a criminal mastermind?"

"He's not a criminal mastermind—"

"He sure gave the Underworld a run for their money."

"Fish did most of the work. She shot Maroni—"

"And Oswald pushed her off a building—Can we return back to the discussion at hand?"

"Gladly. But I'm not jealous."

"Really."

" _Really._ "

"So, you _don't_ get irritated when I hold his hand in front of you?"

"Wouldn't you get a little possessive if Lee held _my_ hand?"

"Sure, I get overprotective of you, but that's just PDA. In fact, I couldn't give a shit if she gave you head while we were sitting side-by-side at a circus.'

"That's actually more problematic than comforting," Jim muttered uncomfortably.

"Well, you shy away from PDA anyway, so we don't have to worry about that," Sylvia stated carelessly. "And another thing—You were pissed off when you found out that we were dating."

"I was pissed off when I found out you two were dating because he came _back_ to Gotham after I told him _not to_ —Falcone had contracts out on us!"

"You couldn't tell him to stay away—Gotham is his home," Sylvia said logically.

"Cards on the table: any man you marry would be better than him."

"That's because you despise any man I would marry because you would no longer be the center of my focus. You think there won't come a day where you and Penguin will be at each other's throats, and I won't choose between you two?"

Jim grimaced as though the very question stabbed him in the leg.

"You think I would put you in that position?" Jim asked reproachfully, obviously hurt.

"You wouldn't mean to. But you would inadvertently do so."

Defensively, he said through gritted teeth, "Penguin could do the _same_ thing, you know."

Sylvia threw her hands up in the air saying, "At that point, I would have to choose **neither** of you. I should never be placed in a situation where I have to choose between my brother and my husband. If that happens, I will _walk away_."

"Just like that?"

"See…" said Sylvia tiredly. "I didn't give Tiffany credit, because _she_ made the **wrong** decision. In the same situation, she was given these same decisions to make—she let someone choose for her. I will not allow that to happen to me."

Jim said with forced calm, "Before you make me out to be the bad guy, what do you think Penguin will do when you finally choose to be on **my** side for a change? What happens when you and him finally don't agree? I doubt he likes sharing either."

Sylvia let out a scathing noise: "How would _you_ know that?"

"I know his type."

"If I ever decide to pick _your_ side, it'll be because I am completely against whatever he's done—that rarely ever happens. Normally, I can't stand what **you** do."

"That doesn't bode well, as I'm normally doing what the law says everyone _should_ do."

"Yep. Sounds about right, which actually brings us to the reason you are here."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Does it? I said I came here to tell you that I would come to your wedding."

"And you've said it. But there's more," Sylvia sneered. "You want me to look the other way and pretend you're _not_ going to collect a debt for Oswald. As long as I do that, you'll still come to my wedding. You won't back out. You won't get cold feet. Just as long as I don't remind you of what you are about to do. Ain't that right?"

Jim frowned.

"See?" Sylvia said sheepishly. "I told you. I _know_ you. You always want something from me. You never want something for _nothing_. And that is why you will always lose if I ever have the inclination to choose sides."

Jim said irritably, "Forget the damn comparison— I **can't** come back from this, Vee!"

"I know you can't."

"And you won't let me live it down if I do this."

"Your detective skills are _sharp_ as ever," Sylvia said satirically, "In all honesty, I've been hoping for something like this to happen, so I can prove to you that nothing is ever black and white in Gotham. I've told you before—there is black, white, grey, blue, and lots and lots of red. And if Ogden Barker does _not_ like what you have to say, you can bet your ass that there _will_ be red."

Jim rubbed his face, looking as though he was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

"If you want help, I will come with you," Sylvia offered. "If anything, I will come as your own moral support."

"I can't ask you to do that."

"You don't have to—I'd gladly come along. We haven't had an adventure together as brother and sister since you and I took down that rich dick, Sionis. I hear he went to Arkham too."

"I can't risk your safety."

"Fuck my safety—I'm the fucking Queen of Gotham. If Barker hurts _you,_ he's just killing a civilian—don't look at me like that, you **are** a civilian—But if he hurts **me** , he has to deal with my men as well as Oswald's men, and not to mention Victor Zsasz."

"Yeah, I hear you and him are best friends," Jim muttered resentfully.

"I wouldn't say we're 'best friends', but we do make pretty good 'contract buddies'."

"You're not helping at all."

"I never help make matters better," Sylvia said lazily. She leaned back in her seat, crossing her ankles on the floor. "So, what do you want to do, Slim-Jim? You're at a crossroads, _Mister_ Gordon. It's now or never—but I prefer now…I have to return some video tapes."

"You're not coming with me. If you get hurt again at my expense, I won't be able to forgive myself."

"Yeah. We both know how _that_ went last time. The scar's pretty much gone though, so no worries."

"I apologized for not shooting him when I had the chance."

"And _I_ said I forgave you for it. But if we're being realistic, what are the odds that I would be shot in the neck _and_ live to blame you for it again?" Sylvia said cynically. "That's like one in a million."

"I still don't like the odds."

"Those are pretty damn good odds though."

Jim gave her a discerning look, saying, "I don't want you to come with me."

Sylvia shrugged, raising her arms over her head.

" _Your_ choice. But be careful. I hear Barker is a hothead."

"Duly noted."

"Whether you come to my wedding or not," Sylvia said calmly, "You'll have this on your conscience. I won't have to remind you because you'll always remember this for the rest of your life."

"You won't mention this to anyone, will you?" Jim asked cautiously.

"Mention what?"

Jim allowed himself a small smile, and Sylvia returned it. He stood to his feet, drank the rest of his water, and placed the glass on the table. He looked at her for the longest time and then pressed his lips against her forehead. Sylvia smiled up at him.

"I love you, Vee."

"Don't get all sappy on me, dude. You'll live another day."

Jim chuckled, and patted her on the shoulder. Sylvia placed her hand over his, patting his hand in the same gesture.

"Love you too," Sylvia said finally.

As he strolled out of the building, he strode with a new purpose.

**Chapter 5: Wedding Plans**

Oswald reclined comfortably on his throne while Sylvia sat adjacent to him, a large binder titled "Wedding" splayed in front of her as she ticked off the items on their To-Do list. Between them was a bottle of Champagne placed in a bucket of ice, and two glasses filled to the brim a second time. Classical music played on the radio at a low volume as they discussed the particulars of what was going to be the most important night of their lives.

"Where do you want the wedding?" Sylvia asked lightly, looking up at Oswald.

Her bare feet had abandoned her white stilettos on the floor and were perched on Oswald's lap; where her ankles had been hooked together, he separated them to rub the ball of her left foot. Sylvia smiled at the affectionate gesture; he met her smile with one of his own.

"The church," Oswald decided.

"Traditional wedding, it is," Sylvia said, scribbling the details in her planner. Looking at him coyly, she asked, "Were you raised Christian or Catholic?"

"The former," Oswald returned with a modest shrug. "I could quote Bible verses to you if you want proof."

She lifted a hand quickly: "No thanks."

His fingers slid atop of her foot, his thumbs dug into the arch, and he grinned when a soft exhale of relief escaped her lips.

"We should have lilies," Sylvia uttered, turning a page in the binder.

Oswald's eyebrows quirked at the suggestion, and he looked at her once-over. Sylvia met his eyes briefly. It wasn't an untold fact that she knew Gertrude's favorite flower was a lily. If Sylvia wanted the same, who was he to object to such a sentimental gesture?

"Any recommendations for the florist?" Oswald said humorously.

After a moment's thought, Sylvia clicked her tongue: " _Joe_!"

Oswald raised his eyebrows at her abrupt brainstorm.

" _Who_?"

"I robbed him once," Sylvia reminisced. "He has a store—cheap costs, but legitimate products; he breeds hybrids. Have you ever seen the product of a rose and a lily?"

"Can't say I have."

Sylvia's face lit up: "It's a sight to behold."

"Joe, it is," Oswald agreed, finding humor in her sudden fascination with the plant (since most plants gave her the feeling of being suffocated).

She wrote the name in the same placement of the flowers she preferred. As she did, the classical music playing softly on the radio changed its tune—instead of the grand piano, violins took its place, a string quartet version of ' _Fur Elise_ '.

"How big are we planning this thing to be?" Sylvia asked as she tucked her bottom lip between her teeth. "The whole Maid-of-Honor and bridesmaids is a little over-the-top to me. Always has been, really."

"Don't most women imagine having a huge wedding?"

"Most do, I suppose," She admitted. She scrunched her nose playfully, adding, "But I'm not 'most women'. Am I?"

"No. You most definitely are not."

"Aside from your mother, my brother—there isn't anyone else I have in mind that's outside of the organization that we need to invite. Tiffany will be in attendance—she has a side-job as a freelance photographer."

Oswald lifted Sylvia's right foot and kissed the top of it. She watched him, smiling when he repeated the same gesture against the inside of her ankle.

"That reminds me," She stated as an afterthought. "We'll have to make invitations."

"I'll let Gabe take care of it," Oswald said, motioning towards the door where Gabe stood outside, along with the other minions.

"We could send him to book the church. Actually, I'll have Tiffany do it—she's less intimidating."

She checked off another item from their wedding agenda: "Time?"

"Evening."

"Evening, it is. Date?"

"I'll leave that up to you," said Oswald, smiling at her.

"I'll make it the 24th," Sylvia said decisively, scribbling in her planner. "It's not a holiday, so traffic should be less cumbersome. That gives me three weeks to find a dress."

"Take Victor," Oswald offered, smirking. "He likes window shopping."

"For guns, maybe. But dresses?"

"Don't underestimate him; he has an eye for grandeur," He reassured.

"Fine. I'll take Victor window shopping after I deal with Gregor."

At the mention of the truant's name, Oswald's expression hardened, all playfulness dropped. Sylvia recognized the look.

"Butch informed me that he isn't backing down," Sylvia informed. "He's holding onto the past."

"But I doubt you wanted him to be so easily persuaded," Oswald said knowingly.

"Mm, you can read me like a book. Ever since I found out he's been running a sex shop; I've waited for an excuse to beat him over the head with a frying pan."

She dropped her pen on the binder, and slowly removed her feet off Oswald's lap and onto the floor. Oswald's eyes never left hers as she slid between himself and the table; the corners of his lips quirked into a smile when she straddled his lap. Her hands rested gingerly on his shoulders, her fingertips smoothing the lapels of his jacket while her feet hovered above the wooden floor.

"Do I have your _permission_ to kill him?" Sylvia asked softly; she puckered her lips innocently, "I don't want to get into trouble again."

Oswald tilted his head back, resting it against the back of the chair while simultaneously meeting her adulated gaze. He cradled her hips in his palms, the smallest wiggle of her body sent a small tingling sensation down his spine—naughty, dirty images of having her bent over the table obscured his focus.

"I'd rather you _try_ and keep him alive," Oswald said firmly.

"'Keep him alive'," Sylvia reiterated. "Copy that. Anything else, Boss?"

"When you pay Gregor a visit, bring Victor with you."

"I'm already bringing him window-shopping. I don't need a babysitter."

"Gregor is a pretentious ass. I don't trust him around women, especially _you_."

"Fine. If it will bring you peace of mind, I'll bring Victor with me," Sylvia compromised. "After, I'll go by the store, look for a dress, and maybe something more…titillating for tonight."

She slowly swiveled her hips, grinding her body against his suggestively—and another jolt of electricity shot through him, the quietest involuntary moan escaped him. She nuzzled her lips along his cheek, peppering soft kisses along his jaw line.

She purred, "Would that make my Daddy Penguin happy?"

Her pet name for him echoed in his ears. Her hand trailed down from his chest to his pants and she palmed him between his legs. Oswald moaned into her mouth.

She tilted her head, licking his earlobe. She said gently, "I'll take that as a 'yes'?"

Oswald closed his eyes, allowing her honeyed words to paint a vision as she continued to whisper dirty things in his ear. The torturous steady grind of her hips coaxed his own to move against them.

Sylvia lowered her head, so they kissed, soft and tender. He lifted his hands, holding her jaw so he could claim her mouth for his own. She let out a small, surprised gasp but he could feel her smug smile.

The doors flew open, causing Sylvia and Oswald to look at Victor.

"Sylvia, are you ready _yet_?" Victor questioned impatiently.

"Didn't I tell you to knock?" Oswald snapped.

Victor glanced oddly at the compromising position of the two of them.

"I'll be right out," Sylvia reassured the hitman, smiling politely.

He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and left the room, sharply turning on his heel, closing the doors on his exit. She turned her head to look at Oswald who was—with great reason—mildly annoyed.

"Duty calls," Sylvia said silkily, standing up. She allowed her kiss on his cheek to linger. "To be continued."

Oswald watched her leave and straightened his suit where she'd ruffled him up with her tantalizing dance.

**Chapter 6: Office Spouses**

Victor sat in the passenger seat with one of the two Glocks cradled affectionately in his hands. Patient as ever, the professional hitman admired his baby, and for the umpteenth time, he checked to make sure it was loaded. Part of this routine was to be doubly sure that nothing would go awry—he had the boss' most precious gem in the driver's seat with him, after all—double checking his ammo, triple checking that the firing pins were in working order (can't have the guns jamming on him if things got messy—as they always did when Sylvia was involved).

"I'm glad we're not in a hurry or anything," Victor said sarcastically, glancing at Sylvia who had spent the last thirty minutes attempting to parallel park.

Sylvia re-corrected the vehicle out of the tight parking space for the twentieth time; she expelled a frustrated sigh as she cranked the steering wheel as far left as it could possibly go and tapped the accelerator with the toe of her laced boot before letting out another irritated sigh.

"Shut _up_ , Victor. I can do it."

"Have you ever seen _SpongeBob_?" Victor asked casually.

Taken aback by the arbitrary question, Sylvia scoffed, " _What_?"

"Those little time cards would be perfect right now," Victor explained humorously; he held up his hands, pretending to hold an invisible cardboard sign: "We need one that says 'Five Hours Later'…Gregor will be onto us and he'll have fled Gotham _and_ —"

"I reiterate shut up," Sylvia snipped.

"How about you ask me nicely?"

" _Please_ , shut up."

Ignoring the heavy dripping sarcasm, Victor said, "Do you want me to do it?"

"No, I _don't_ want you to do it," Sylvia snapped, glaring at him.

She drove the stick in 'Reverse', wrapped an arm behind Victor's head rest, and peering over her shoulder, she mumbled, "Asshole."

Victor sighed in resignation, resisting the powerful urge to roll his eyes out of his respect for her, and he re-checked his weapons once more. If anything, it was just something to do while Sylvia slowly drove herself into a furious rage (no pun intended).

"If I did it," Victor insisted, holstering his weapons, "it would only take two minutes."

"I can park the **goddamn** car, Victor! Okay? I know how to drive! The fucker in front of me didn't pull forward enough and the one behind me isn't backed up—it's like trying to fit a bookend into a tightly fitted shelf full of boring autobiographies!"

"That's oddly specific."

Furious, Sylvia snarled, "Why the **fuck** does he not have his own goddamn driveway anyway—he lives in a fucking _house_!"

"Maybe you should bring that up to him when we finally have the chat," He suggested, suppressing a grin when Sylvia shot him a filthy look.

She cranked the wheel to the right, and the car seemed to resist with a 'thud!' but she ignored it and once more, she slowly pressed down on the accelerator. Whatever the malfunction—be it her driving or the mechanisms of the car—it shot forward suddenly and caused a fender bender, knocking out the taillight of the car in front of them.

" _Fuck Nuggets!_ " Sylvia shouted, hitting the dashboard contemptuously.

"Liv, let me park the car. We'll get this over with, we'll go inside, have a chat with the man; you can have your temper tantrum inside."

"Don't patronize me! I'm **not** having a temper tantrum."

"Sorry, but I have to disagree."

"Then please do so in silence!" Sylvia responded harshly.

Victor sighed, raising his eyebrows, "I haven't the slightest idea how you and the Boss get along so swimmingly. Between your temper and his, I'm surprised you—"

" _Get out_." Sylvia ordered, glaring at him.

Victor held his hands up, smirking, and he did as he was told. He closed the door and stood on the curb side.

"Turn the wheel to the left," He advised.

"Go in and talk to Gregor," Sylvia stated curtly. "I'll handle _this_."

"I'm talking you through it," Victor said firmly, ignoring her orders. He placed his hands on the roof of the car, lowering his head so he could peer through the driver's window. "Turn the wheel to the left."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're a terrible driver," Victor replied sheepishly. "No offense."

"I'm too pissed to even be offended."

"Stop being stubborn and turn the wheel."

"Ask me nicely."

"Please," Victor spoke through gritted teeth. " _Please_ turn the wheel to the left."

He walked her through the instructions as to how to parallel park but even with his guidance, Sylvia backed into the car behind her and caused a fender bender.

"That's it! I've had it with this _cunting_ car!" Sylvia bellowed.

Angrily, Sylvia yanked the keys out of the ignition, stepped out, and slammed the door shut. Victor's eyebrows raised as Sylvia prowled towards the car that was parked erroneously behind them.

She shattered the driver's seat window with her elbow, wincing at the pain only for a second before craning her arm inside and unlocked the door; wordlessly, she pulled it open, plopped into the seat, and for a few minutes, Victor couldn't even see the top of her head as she was bent forward, leaning into the floor board.

"Liv, what are you doing?"

"Shut up, I'm doing something…I just need to find—there it is! HA!" Sylvia praised; a maniacal laugh soon followed.

She straightened up, grinning maliciously when she had finished hot-wiring the car. Cranking the gears, she let off the brake and the car started rolling backwards.

"You have enough room now, you can stop the car…" Victor pointed out, gesturing to the large gap between the tail end of their own vehicle and the front of the stranger's car.

Sylvia heard him, all right. But she didn't stop.

She quickly hopped out of the driver's seat, leaving the door hanging open and then pushed the car just enough so that it rolled down the hill and careened into the several cars that had been correctly parallel parked.

Victor's lips parted in surprise at the catastrophe that followed—luckily, most of the cars seemed to have been vacated, but still…what if they hadn't been?

"Feeling a little impulsive, are we?" Victor asked coolly as Sylvia brushed by him.

"I couldn't help it, Victor—the asshole behind us vexed me; his parking skills are horrific." Sylvia answered half-heartedly.

"Did you bring a shovel?"

"No. Will we need one?"

"Probably. I imagine this is going to be one of those talks that ends with a human-sized hole and a shovel."

"I'm not digging any holes."

"You've probably dug yourself one, metaphorically speaking," Victor pointed out, tilting his head to the devastation at the bottom of the hill.

"Oh, you're a poet with the rhetoric."

"Your brother won't be happy once he realizes you've given more work for him to do," Victor said amusedly.

"What, you're not going to tell on me, are you?" Sylvia questioned, flashing a mischievous smile at him. She opened the trunk, and continued: "Besides, what my brother thinks is irrelevant. He was fired from the police force—Oh, look at that—I _did_ bring a shovel! Ha. What do you know!"

Again, Victor attempted to suppress the urge to roll his eyes, but only just. He'd thought many times that Penguin had a tendency to be thrown into a violent temper tantrum—like a spoiled child who didn't get their way. With Sylvia, she could react one of two ways: with deadly calm or destructive compulsion.

Victor would not admit it to anyone else, and sometimes, not even himself: Sylvia was the only person who could spook him.

But he had a special spot in his heart reserved especially for her. Victor could see why Penguin liked having her around; she was down-to-earth, personable, attractive, intelligent, and sassy as fuck. The part that Victor found less attractive was her stubbornness, but that seemed to be a family trait.

Sylvia pulled out a switchblade from what looked to be a jewelry box. The switchblade in its right was five inches of stainless steel; the handle, micarta. She flicked her thumb over the switch and said blade flipped out of its shell.

It wasn't the first time Victor had seen this knife, nor was it the first time he'd seen this sort of ritual. This side of Sylvia—her sadistically artistic side—was what made her a tolerable contract buddy. Victor could deal with her snippy comments for reasons that included the fact she was his boss' betrothed, just so he could watch her work.

Watching Sylvia torture people was better than watching a game on the television. Gregor didn't know it; but he was in a world of hurt. Not only did Gregor not appreciate the new regime that was Penguin's order, he had also been running a sex shop that was full of vulnerable, abused women—and some of them weren't even of age. Double whammies for Gregor, but triple lottery for Victor's entertainment.

What Victor and Sylvia disagreed upon most was how the death should be administered. Sylvia played with her food longer than for what was needed; Victor would eventually become tired of the games and prefer the victim to eat a bullet. She thought that method was anticlimactic.

"Bringing out the knife, huh?" Victor teased as he and Sylvia approached the front door. "How original of you."

"Keep smacking the bull, Mr. Zsasz. You'll get the horns."

"I wonder what that's like," Victor murmured, smirking at her.

"Like you haven't thought of it before," Sylvia remarked, glancing at him.

"I plead the fifth."

" _Scandalous_ ," Sylvia pipped playfully; she gave the door a once-over, saying, "Should we go in?"

"We have a few minutes," Victor stated, glancing at his watch. "Surprisingly, we have time to spare—you know, after _that_ debacle."

"I _parked_ the fucking car. I told you I would take care of it and I did."

"Mm-hm—with five minutes to spare."

"He didn't park right. It's not my fault."

"Well, it doesn't matter now. They're all in a pile at the bottom of the hill."

"Serves them right—they'll remember how to do it next time."

"Or maybe next time you can just choose—oh, I don't know— _a parking lot_."

"The nearest one was five blocks away, and I'm _pretty_ sure you know that."

Standing on her right, Victor tilted his head ever so slightly to the left and muttered, "I didn't know you could hot-wire a car."

"Well, _now_ I'm offended." Sylvia pretended to be hurt. "If you don't think I can hot-wire a car then we are not operating on the same level of mutual respect."

"I meant no offense."

"You lie," Sylvia kidded, flashing him a crooked smile.

Her belly rumbled, and she placed her hand over it.

"We should have brought snacks," Victor said, thinking the same as she.

"We can grab pizza afterward. You still like pepperoni?"

"Does a bear shit in the woods?"

"Pepperoni, it is. What does your watch say?"

"Five after six," Victor answered without looking.

"I say we'll do this thing for about an hour, at the most—get pizza after; I still have to go dress shopping. Oswald suggested you come with me," Sylvia invited. "He says you have an eye for fashion."

"Not to toot my own horn, but I do."

"Toot, toot!"

She brushed one hand through her hair, twirling the knife in the other. Victor turned to look at her completely, body and all.

"You're not going to go all 'Bridezilla' on me, are you?" He questioned cautiously.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sylvia playfully chastised. "I'm not picky."

"This should be fun, then."

"Quite." Sylvia chirped enthusiastically. "Now, do you know what we want to do here? We can't be crossing streams like before."

"That's an odd way of putting it."

"Well, the last time we did something like this, you said _you'd_ torture and _I_ would kill, but if I remember correctly, _you_ ended up doing all of it," Sylvia stated. "Now, if I play with Gregor, you get to kill him. But you can't chime in on the torture when things start getting good."

Victor resigned, "You know what? I won't even argue with you on this one. Consider it my wedding present; you can do it all."

"The torture _and_ the killing?"

"I thought the Boss wanted you to keep him alive," He reminded, side-glancing at her, as he knocked on the door.

"He said 'try'."

"So, you assume that means 'don't'?"

"You know me too well, Victor," Sylvia said, winking at him.

"I'm pretty sure we're past formalities."

"Don't I know. You're my work hubby."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves; we're only on our third date."

"I know; we've not even gotten to second base," Sylvia joked.

Victor opened his mouth like he was offended, saying, "That's not true—I saw your legs once."

" _Scoundrel_ ," Sylvia gasped. She said mischievously, "It seems only fair that I should see yours."

"I'm saving myself for marriage," Victor replied—although Sylvia couldn't tell if he was being profound or he was still playing along.

Sylvia side-glanced at him: "You can at _least_ hold my hand."

"Nope."

"You're such a prude."

Victor snorted while Sylvia snickered. He knocked on the door again. There was no answer.

"Maybe he's not home?" Sylvia suggested.

"What makes you think he's not?"

"What makes you think he _is_?"

"His car's parked outside."

" _Was_ ," Sylvia corrected smartly. "It's at the bottom of the hill."

"My point still stands."

"The lights are off," Sylvia noted quietly. "Maybe he went for a walk."

"An energy-efficient gangster," Victor said amusedly. "That's a new one for the books."

"You never know—Falcone was one hell of a gangster and he liked _chickens_."

Victor glanced at Sylvia pointedly, and she met the expression with a soft one of her own. Once upon a time, Victor worked for Falcone and Sylvia had been threatened by Falcone's presence. While Sylvia had always considered Falcone to be a hard ass, she always respected the man for his old-fashioned, traditional tastes. And this respect seemed to register with Victor on the same level.

"What if he isn't home?" Sylvia asked curiously.

"Well, that would be counterproductive."

"Let's break in."

"Well, you've already upset the car insurance companies," Victor sighed, indicating the vehicular disaster at the bottom of the hill, "Breaking and entering doesn't seem too bad after—Whoa, _Liv_!"

Sylvia threw a potted plant through the window, shattering glass. She looked at him innocently.

"What?" She mewed.

Victor grabbed Sylvia's arm and yanked her from view once he heard gunfire.

"Has it ever occurred to you that there would be guards here?" Victor questioned through gritted teeth.

"Live in the moment, Victor," She said, punching him playfully in the shoulder. "The time for action is NOW! While we're still young!"

"You're so impulsive. How does someone like Penguin keep you under control?"

Sylvia ignored his comment saying, "Well, look on the bright side, precious: we know he's home."

"And you almost had your head blown off."

"Now you're just being a pessimist. Don't be such a…" She drew a square in the air.

When the gunfire stopped, Victor stood cautiously to his feet.

"I am here for Gregor Miles!" He called out loudly. "I am _only_ here for him. The rest of you are free to go…!"

Silence followed.

"I'm here too!" Sylvia sang. "If you fuckers want to live another day, I suggest you get the hell out!"

Victor rolled his eyes. She was so far away from being a professional, the oceans could not have put more distance between them.

Steadily, one by one, five men wearily stepped out of the door—one even hopped through the window for whatever reason. Sylvia was certain he was either drunk or high on life as he took the road less traveled by.

As the last gentleman hurried out of the house, Victor caught him by the arm. Frightened, the man shook like a leaf in the fall.

"Is he in there?" Victor questioned.

"Yes."

" **Alive**?" Sylvia interrogated harshly.

Even more frightened of the woman, the man barely whispered, "Yes."

"Good." Victor said, smiling happily.

The man edged away from Victor once he was released out of his grip and placed a great amount of distance in a short amount of time between Sylvia and Victor, and himself. When the last man standing had abandoned the post, Victor nodded for Sylvia to go ahead of him.

"Ladies first."

"Well, how charming of you," Sylvia enthused; she started to take a step forward.

"Just kidding," Victor joked, pulling her back. " _I'll_ go first—if you get killed, I'll be shot dead quicker than you can say 'oops'."

"You said I could have him!"

"Don't worry. I'm only protecting you."

"God, if I had a nickel for every time, I heard that."

"I said I would give him to you as a gift. I'm a man of my word. Now, please. With all due respect, would you stop talking? It's very distracting."

Sylvia restrained herself to muted irritation as Victor stepped ahead of her and slowly advanced into the house, both of his guns taken out of their sheaths and aimed ahead of him. He reminded Sylvia of a predator, slow, calculating, meticulous—there was something leery about a man who had the patience of a spider.

"You're not going to get a cent!" Gregor was heard shouting, his voice sounding like it was muffled, but echoing at the same time.

"He's in the bathroom."

"That explains the echo," Sylvia joked.

"Has anyone told you that sarcasm is anger's ugly cousin?"

"Has anyone ever told you that I couldn't give two shits?"

"And I thought _Jim_ was argumentative."

"I'm a force to be reckoned with," Sylvia teased. " _Bow_ before the hurricane."

She and Victor loosened their grip on their weapons of choice as they approached the bathroom. It was, indeed, locked (as Sylvia tried jiggle the knob), and Gregor's voice whimpered from behind the door.

"I don't owe that freak a single penny!" Gregor shouted.

Sylvia rapped her knuckles on the door: "It's not nice to call people names."

Victor sheathed his weapons; he crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame, smirking as Sylvia tapped the door again even gentler.

Her voice lowered to the soft tones like that of a mother speaking to a frightened child; she was provoking the macho-man syndrome that Gregor undeniably had.

"Mama's not angry with you," Sylvia coaxed, a sinister smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Mama just wants to talk."

"Fuck you!"

Sylvia lost her soothing tone the moment he cursed: "Open the door, Gregor. Open the door, and—"

"I'm not giving you anything!"

"Oh, we are _way_ beyond that!" Victor chuckled. "Trust me. If I were you, I'd stay locked behind that door."

"That fucking bitch doesn't scare me."

"From this standpoint, I'd say differently," said Victor lazily.

"I know, right," Sylvia muttered, glancing at Victor in agreement. She addressed Gregor: "My man, if you don't open the door, I will have no choice but to break it down. If you make me go through all that and fuck up my shoes, it will only make matters worse for you!"

"You're going to kill me—"

"And I would be justified in doing so!" Sylvia shouted; she kicked the bottom of the door with her boot in a sudden temper. "You're delinquent in debt, and you refuse to play ball. The only option left is to make an example out of you so people will learn how to play the game!"

"FUCK YOU!"

Victor sighed. Sylvia glanced at him curiously.

"Liv, I'm down for these games, but I'll have to be honest," He said with forced calm. "I don't like the way he's talking to you."

After due consideration, she turned her attention back at the door: "Gregor, do you hear him! He doesn't like how you've been talking to me. Save yourself a bullet. Unlock the door, come out."

"Go fuck your brother, whore."

Sylvia raised her eyebrows at the insult and was amused by it. However, Victor looked murderous. He slowly pulled out one of his babies and cocked it. Sylvia stepped back as Victor placed an arm in front of her, guiding her behind him.

He had heard enough of Gregor's disrespect.

He shot one bullet in the keyhole, unlocking the door. He put two bullets each in Gregor's knees (and he screamed bloody murder). The man had tucked himself in the bathtub; the ceramic white floor was stained with blood; the shower walls glistened with maroon spots.

Sylvia leaned against the doorframe, grinning like a Cheshire cat as Victor put the last bullet in Gregor's head. When he turned, the hitman's face was contorted with rage and when he glanced at Sylvia, his expressions slowly softened.

Sylvia said calmly, "You know, we agreed that I'd be the one to do it but I'm not even mad you killed him. You have a soft spot for me, don't you, work hubby?"

He passed by her wordlessly. He didn't have to state the given that his affection for her was purely platonic and professional. Sylvia already knew it, but she just loved teasing Victor; he was such an easy target, much like Oswald was.

Sylvia sat in the passenger seat; Victor took the wheel.

"Where's the nearest pizza joint?" He asked, glancing at her.

"Three blocks down—and they have a parking lot."

"Well, even if it didn't, it wouldn't matter to me. Unlike some people, I know how to parallel park."

"Keep talking—I will push you out of this car."

"I locked the doors."

"You _just_ watched me break a window," Sylvia said spiritedly. "And you think a _door_ will stop me?"

"Fair enough." Victor surrendered.

"Thank you."

As he started the car and drove down the street, Victor stated, "You suck at parking."

"Fuck you."

"Here, _now_?" Victor countered.

Sylvia rolled her eyes, and she and Victor shared a crude chuckle as he pulled out of the parking space and headed for the nearest pizza palace.

**Chapter 7: Bridezilla**

As projected, Tiffany booked the church for the marvelous wedding while Gabe took care of the wedding invitations; all the staff would get one, as well as any others who had been placed on the list. Victor was the security consultant; the _real_ reason the invitations were being made was to make certain that no one would murder the bride or groom.

Victor and Sylvia visited store after store and finding the 'perfect' dress was proving to be harder than was theorized. It wasn't Sylvia's doing; she'd agreed on every dress that had been placed at her feet by the storekeepers.

As Victor denounced yet another dress and the staff stalked away to fetch another, Sylvia crossed her arms and wearily looked at the hitman.

"And you were worried that _I_ would be the Bridezilla," Sylvia said impatiently. "It's a good thing we went for pizza before this; I can't imagine what you're like when you're hungry."

"It's a wedding, Liv," He said for the hundredth time as if this explained everything. "You're only going to be doing this once—you might as well put more thought into it."

Sylvia lowered her hands from their cross stance and smirked when he sat down on the bench; he was fumed at the staff as if they were not doing their best to find the 'perfect' dress…or maybe, that was his resting bitch face. Either way, she had to admire how much thought Victor was putting into this occasion—and it wasn't even his special moment.

She wondered how particular he'd be on his own wedding day.

"Did you ever do this kind of thing with Falcone?" asked Sylvia; she stood precariously on the stool, looking at her white-glossed heels; before her was a long, standing mirror, twice her height. She wore black leggings and a white tank top.

"No."

"Ever go dress-shopping with his wife?"

"No. She passed away long before I met her."

"That's a shame. Does Falcone have kids?"

"Why are you suddenly curious?" Victor responded suspiciously.

"Lower your guard, bud. I just never was able to know Falcone like you do. You're the closest person to him," Sylvia said lightly. "I figured you might have learned a few fashionista tips from him—since you're being so damn picky."

Victor allowed himself a small smile, probably reminiscing a time where he and Falcone went suit-shopping and his obsessive need for perfection in both presentation and professionalism had annoyed even the most patient of gangsters at one time.

"You're not wrong," He stated after some time had passed.

"Not wrong about what?"

He didn't answer her, but his stony silence—however sentimental in value—was oddly satisfying. Sylvia looked at her appearance in the mirror.

Her hair had grown exceptionally in length. When she had met Oswald, she had short hair, chin-length. Now, it had grown to her back in waves, not necessarily curls. Her eyes still held the ocean-blues, but they became glossy when she considered an alternate universe in which she'd be shopping for dresses with her late mother.

Or at least, maybe her brother.

Jim knew shit about fashion. Aside from the tie and get-up that he always wore as a detective, Jim was as knowledgeable about fashion as the bum-leaking hobo sitting in the middle of the Narrows.

Oswald knew a great deal about it—but they were going by the book on the wedding. The groom couldn't see the dress until it was walking down the aisle with the bride wearing it.

"You're quiet," Victor noted, breaking Sylvia out of her crestfallen trance. "I thought I'd like your silence, but it's actually really unsettling."

"I'm fine."

" _Are_ you?"

Sylvia glanced at the reflection that belonged to Victor, noticing that his own was staring back at hers. He didn't look away, even as she allowed her soft expressions to harden.

"No." Sylvia admitted, and it surprised both of them.

Victor stood to his feet. Dressed in all black, he seemed to be a shadow standing behind her. Sylvia glanced at him, and then turned to peer at the real thing.

"I thought I'd be doing this with someone else," She said softly. "I mean, doesn't it make you uncomfortable?"

"No. Should it?"

"You're telling me that seeing me in this" Sylvia pointed to her skin-tight leggings and fitting tank-top that showed off her stomach and attractive assets, "doesn't make you uncomfortable?"

Smirking, he said, "I think you're very beautiful, Liv. And Penguin is one hell of a lucky man to see you in every way a man like I would probably like to—but I'm not in any way attracted to you in any romantic form."

"Huh."

"Disappointed?"

"No. Relieved. It's quite refreshing, actually."

"I do like our back-and-forth between us, though," Victor said sneakily. "It makes things more interesting."

"The feeling is mutual."

As they spoke, two women hurried into the room with two more white dresses. One was lacy, strapless; the other was more modest with long-sleeves, backless, and something from a Cinderella theme.

Victor held up the strapless, looking at it with narrowed eyes.

"I like this one," Sylvia said, picking up the other one. "Look—the sleeves go down to the hand; like some vampire queen thing."

She placed it over her body, turning to the mirror, imagining herself in the dress. It just didn't quite work though.

"Maybe we're thinking about this wrong," Sylvia suggested. She turned to the ladies. "Let's try a black-and-white color scheme."

"But all the wedding dresses are white…." One of the ladies mumbled.

"Then go outside the realm of possibilities."

They glanced at each other uncertainly but did as she requested, taking the dresses with them. Victor looked at her curiously.

"What are you thinking?"

"Black is for funerals, white is too…"

"Innocent?"

"Well, I was going to say 'bright'," Sylvia uttered, "but that too. Plus…I like black and white together."

"Why?"

"It reminds me of a penguin."

"You're trying to butter up the boss, aren't you?"

Sylvia shrugged, "Well, sure, but I also like penguins. They're cute and fluffy."

"Is that what attracted you to him in the first place?" Victor questioned in amusement.

Sylvia stepped off the stool, and Victor tilted his head forward to meet her eyes. She was substantially shorter than he; she was shorter than Penguin, for goodness sake. However, even with the height difference, he could feel the aura of confidence and power radiating from her.

"What do you think attracted me to him?"

"Other than his ambition for power…"

"That came after," Sylvia said softly.

She sat on the stool while the women tittered and tattered over dresses in the shop; Victor sat on the bench, adjacent to her.

"I remember the day I realized I was in love with him," She said, smiling at Victor. "He and I were working for Fish Mooney, back when she was running the joint. When I first saw Oswald, I was outside, taking out the trash. Some of Mooney's boys were dishing out her discipline on some poor fool; they started making fun of Oswald, calling him names. 'Penguin' was one of them."

Victor chuckled, "You fell in love with him because they called him a penguin?"

"No." Sylvia said, grinning widely. "Not then. He came into the bar, started talking to me. He was angry after what they had done, and I told him—just in passing—that I like penguins, and they're my favorite animals. The way he looked at me after that, I knew something connected, I _knew_ something happened between us."

"That is one of the cheesiest love-at-first-sight stories I have ever had the misfortune to hear."

"You're an asshole. You know that?"

"Better than anyone. Where was your first date?"

"A carnival," Sylvia responded. "I wore a yellow sundress."

"Have you considered wearing _that_ at your wedding?" Victor questioned. "That was the first dress you wore when you dated; I figure it should be the last when you seal the deal."

Sylvia tilted her head curiously, looking at him: "Victor Zsasz: cold-blooded hitman…secretly, a romantic."

"Never said I wasn't romantic," He said, aloof.

"Hm. Fine then. You've convinced me. 'Yellow sundress', it is."

"Have you decided on the song for walking down the aisle?"

"No, should I?"

Victor sighed deeply, "You've not thought about _any_ of this, have you?"

"Honestly, no. With Jim being demoted and all this stuff happening with—"

"We're doing that now." Victor stated firmly, getting to his feet.

"Oh—okay, I didn't see my day ending like this but all right." Sylvia uttered, getting to her feet as well.

Victor headed out of the door and Sylvia followed him. Just as the door swung closed, the two women had come out of the closet with five differently patterned black-and-white dresses. No one had told them to stop.

Oppressed by the unappreciated effort, they threw the clothes in the air and closed the store for the day.

**Chapter 8: A Visit To Arkham**

Arkham Asylum. Just standing on the grounds of the same made Sylvia shiver…or perhaps it was the chilly wind.

Victor had a contract to take care of, and that was fine by her. She had an old friend to visit.

The hospital itself had an air of dread and looming sorrow. The walls were painted snowflake; the ceiling was tiled with the same glaring color. While Sylvia was not permitted to visit the cells, she doubted she would have done so without a second person with her. Even in the waiting room, she could hear the cries and screams of the inmates steadily losing or having already lost their minds. Another unpleasant tingle ran down her spine.

From what she understood, the director of Arkham had long been since replaced; the head of psychiatry had been killed by the escaped convict, Jack Gruber; luckily, the inmate had been caught (and killed in the process).

Before meeting her friend, Sylvia met with the director's replacement. It was a man with a white lab coat; he wore a pair of quirky, pink-tinted circular spectacles. His voice sounded like one, long syllable, sometimes elongating the vowels with a sarcastic croak; otherwise, he was monotonous. For a psychiatrist, there was oddly nothing soothing about his appearance, and his personality in general made Sylvia's skin crawl.

They sat alone in his office prior to Sylvia speaking with one of his inmates.

"Your brother used to work for the former director," said Dr. Strange, smiling plainly at Sylvia, who sat opposite of him. "James Gordon, right?"

"Yes."

"And your name is…Sylvia."

"Correct." She confirmed politely.

"And who is it that you're visiting, may I ask?"

"Barbara Kean."

"She was your brother's fiancé."

"Also correct."

"Should I be worried?"

Sylvia scowled, finding his faux concern more annoying that reassuring. He had become desensitized to the screams of the suffering and the cries of the repressed rage belonging to those of his precious 'patients'. If the man was worried about anything, it was of his own safety should his patients decide to exact revenge for their 'therapy'.

She had no evidence of his false concern or the torture from which his patients suffered, but Sylvia had started trusting her gut instinct shortly after Oswald returned to her from the grave. And her gut cried 'fake asshole' so loudly, Sylvia was a bit surprised that Hugo Strange didn't hear it himself.

Seeing the observant pair of eyes peering through the glasses, Sylvia was thankful he couldn't.

"Barbara Kean was my friend before she was detained." Sylvia explained kindly. "The break-up between her and my brother means less than nothing to me."

"That's interesting," said Dr. Strange, smirking at her. "You don't sound as though you're close to your brother."

"Our relationship is complicated."

"Your family sounds dysfunctional."

"Aren't all families? My point is that I have no ill intentions towards Barbara Kean. I just want to talk to her."

"Is it about what happened with her parents?"

"No," Sylvia denied. "I already know what happened to her parents."

Strange gesticulated to her, "Please, tell me what you know."

"Is this to prove that I'm not lying to you?"

"What a suspicious mindset, you have! Do _you_ believe that I think you're lying to me?"

"No," said Sylvia, folding her arms across her chest. "I think you're psychoanalyzing me. Not to damage your psychoanalytical profiling, but I've learned to nurture a natural suspicion for people in general. You're no different."

"You're a smart girl, Miss Gordon."

"And you've proven to be a smart man," said Sylvia shifting in her seat. "You like to play mind games."

Strange snorted, "Right, you are, Miss Gordon. I _love_ playing mind games. It's the only way to pass the time, I'm afraid. However, back to the situation at hand: You appear to be of no threat to my patients."

"That's good to hear."

"So, let's go over the rules, shall we?"

It was Sylvia's turn to gesture towards him, saying calmly, "By your lead."

"Very well. You'll be talking to Miss Kean behind a glass window—this window is impenetrable, bullet-proof. I'd advise trying to break it, lest you want twenty of my guards to taser you." Strange stated stoically. "Do not hand Miss Kean anything—paper, pencil, not even a paper clip. Convicts who long to escape are very creative, even in a habitat that offers no escape whatsoever."

"'Convicts'." Sylvia repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Don't you mean 'patients'?"

"They're convicts in the eyes of the law, my dear," Strange said kindly. "I'm referring to them as such to emphasize the dire consequences that will follow if you don't abide by these rules."

"Fine."

"I'm surprised that the word 'convict' upsets you," Strange said as he glanced down at a stack of papers, tidying them up. "Considering the fact that _you_ are about to be **married** to one. Or at least, that's the word around Gotham these days."

"The word 'convict' doesn't upset me, doctor. And, for what it's worth, Oswald Cobblepot has never been convicted of a crime. He hasn't even seen the inside of a court room."

"So quick to come to your betrothed's defense, aren't we?"

"Well, he is someone who is close to me."

Strange admired her with a sly little smile: "Does Mr. Cobblepot provoke a protective urge of yours?"

Sylvia's eyes narrowed at him.

"He certainly brings out a maternal instinct, I can see that much." Strange continued, his smile widening.

"Why would you say that?"

"You're quick to defend him—regardless of what he's done."

"I call it 'being a friend'."

"You're his lover, not his friend."

"I'm both, so even better."

"Do you find yourself having the urge to pamper him when he's having a bad day?" Strange asked curiously. "When people contest him, are you quick to temper, to protect? Does it bring you an unprecedented adulation when you can nurture and coddle this grown man?"

"You're psychoanalyzing again," Sylvia said, ignoring his questions. "It's getting a little invasive."

"Or maybe, you don't want to acknowledge the answer?"

Sylvia laughed. It made Strange tilt his head like he wasn't certain why she had laughed in the first place. She leaned towards him, her hands spread out on the desk like she might attack him, and she flashed a hard smile.

"'He brings out a maternal instinct'—seriously, is that the _best_ you can come up with? I'll give something better. I'll not even acknowledge it but admit that he brings a _lot_ of maternal instincts to the surface, _Doctor_ Strange. Do you know what that's called, hm?"

"I do, but please, enlighten—"

"It's a 'mommy kink'. In fact, it brings me _great_ pleasure to coddle him, to nurture and protect. You're trying to twist it and make it sound perverse—good on you, doc—I hope this adds to your _valuable_ research."

She sat back, exhaling deeply before she forced a smile.

"Are we done?" Sylvia questioned.

"So quick to defend him," Strange murmured smugly (like he hadn't even heard her!) "But we _both_ know what he's doing as we speak, don't we? Being Gotham's Kingpin takes a great amount of mental strength, _emotional_ strength."

"Meaning?"

"I see a marriage doomed to fail when such stress is placed upon it. Do you have the same mental, emotional strength as he?"

Sylvia clutched the arms of the chair and narrowed her eyes at him: "You're starting to vex me."

"I can tell. But we _just_ discussed how much I like mind games, didn't we? Anyway…the next rule: if you want to give something to the inmate, please check with the orderlies. They will be the go-between the two of you. Preferably, give her nothing—not even a telephone."

"I got it," Sylvia clipped. " _Anything else_?"

Strange leaned back in his chair, asking, "How does your brother feel about all of this, hm?"

"You're pretty nosy—even for a therapist."

"I'm a psychiatrist—that's different."

"Not really," Sylvia pointed out. "You prescribe meds—psychologists provide talk therapy. Perhaps you should be a therapist—you do a great deal of talking."

"How very interesting."

" _Is_ it?" Sylvia questioned coolly. " _Please_ tell me the other rules so I can speak with whom I came to here to talk in the first place."

"Temper, temper."

" **Boy** , you don't even want to _know_!" Sylvia snapped, getting to her feet suddenly.

"You're wrong. I _do_ want to know." Strange said excitedly, leaning forward. "You'd be a beautiful creature to study…"

"Are we finished!"

"One more rule, just so you're aware."

" **Yes**?"

"Don't touch the inmate."

"Noted. Are we done now?"

"We are. Be tender with Miss Kean."

"I will. Don't worry."

"Oh, I'm not worried," Strange mused. "See you around…Mrs. Cobblepot."

Sylvia clicked her tongue as she closed the office door, rolling her eyes so far in the back of her head, she was certain they might pop out through the nape of her neck.

And she thought _Jim_ was insufferable!

The door opened after an ear-screeching alarm sounded off. It was the sound of the door being unlocked by the mechanisms surrounding the iron room. Inside were two steel chairs, grounded by the legs. Dividing them was a table, made from the same polished metal. The air itself was cool, but after the irritating conversation with Strange, Sylvia welcomed the air-conditioning, shrugging off her black sweater and allowing it to fall carelessly on the floor.

Sitting in the other chair was Barbara Kean, wearing a dress with slate grey and white stripes; she wore a number, for all she was in this place was that: a number. One more criminal behind bars, another crazy person in the nuthouse.

Her wrists were cuffed, the metal bracelets padded on the inside with flimsy cotton. She could only move them about three inches in any direction; otherwise, she was immobile.

The last time Sylvia had seen Barbara, she looked like a totally different person. Smooth, finely straightened long blonde hair, soft skin, eyes so beautiful that she had intimidated Sylvia upon first impression; and she always wore the best clothes; it aligned with her expensive tastes.

And now, here was the different Barbara…perhaps the _real_ Barbara Kean that had been nutted inside the shell of an innocent woman all these years: Her hair was a curly mess, and the sneer that greeted Sylvia was definitely real.

"Hey, girlfriend," Barbara greeted when Sylvia had sat down. "Long time, no see."

"They said I could visit for an hour or two. I'm guessing you don't get many visitors?"

"You're the only one. Took you long enough, didn't it?"

"Well, Babs. You said you didn't want to see me anymore," Sylvia reminded calmly. "You couldn't be friends with your ex-fiancé's sister because that would have made things harder. Remember that conversation?"

Barbara chuckled, leaning back in her seat, lifting on leg over the other: "It's starting to come back to me. So, _you_ look good."

"Thanks. You too."

"Oh, you, kidder," Barbara snickered; then quite abruptly, "How's Jim?"

"He's fine."

"Is he still with that doctor bitch?"

"Yes." Sylvia answered calmly. "And she's not a bitch."

Barbara sneered, "Oh, _good_ , so now you're on **his** side?"

"I'm not on anyone's side," Sylvia said, raising her hands in surrender. "Never have been."

"Did you come to talk to me about my parents?"

"No."

"Well, I—" Barbara began, but hearing Sylvia's response, she stumbled over her words and stared at her incredulously. "You're not?"

"No," Sylvia repeated. "But if you want to discuss them, that's fine by me. I never liked them anyway."

"You never met them."

"I don't have to meet them to know I wouldn't like them."

Vehemently, Barbara growled, "They deserved to die."

"I agree."

Barbara grinned again: "How'd you even _get_ in here? The doctors can't think this will help my therapy any."

"I didn't tell them what I came here to talk to you about." Sylvia explained. "A friend visiting a friend—that's all I am to them."

"So why _are_ you here?"

"Because you're my _friend_. And I know you're currently incapacitated to do so, but I wanted to personally invite you to my wedding. I can't give you the invitation—they'd probably throw it away, anyway—but this is what it looks like."

Sylvia pulled the invitation card out of her capris pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the table.

"Well!"

"It's taking place on February 24th."

"That's tomorrow," Barbara noted. She said happily, "This is some _nice_ calligraphy. Who did it?"

"No one you know. I'm inviting a few people. You'd be invited if you were allowed to come, but I have feeling these people won't allow that."

"How touching," Barbara taunted. "Well, I'd _love_ to, but as you said—I'm currently ill-disposed. But thanks for the thought. So, let me ask you something."

"Sure," said Sylvia as she placed the invitation back in her pocket.

"Do you like Lee?"

"She's fine."

"Do you like her better than me?" Barbara questioned, her eyebrows lowering with dark expectations.

"If I said I preferred you over her. Would you believe me?"

"Maybe."

"I like you better than her."

"I find that hard to believe."

Sylvia and Barbara exchanged a wise-cracking grin; Barbara's eyes squinted with an inner glow. A silence passed between them during which they silently snickered. The banter had brought up fun times, reminisce, but it died naturally as Barbara fidgeted with her hands, picking at her fingernails.

"Do you feel any different?" Sylvia asked.

"About?"

"You killed your parents. You have to be feeling _something_."

"I feel nothing about it. Does that scare you?"

"Not at all," said Sylvia, reclining back in her seat. "It can be freeing…"

"How would you know anything about that?"

Sylvia rested her chin on her hand, smirking at her.

"We have more in common than you know," She told her softly. "I mean, you know what I've done as a kid. Do you _really_ think for a moment that Jim being a cop has ever stopped me from doing what I want?"

Barbara looked at her indifferently. Then the gears turned and clicked into place. Barbara grinned mischievously.

"You _do_ know what it feels like, don't you?" She whispered.

"I won't implicate myself," said Sylvia secretly. "But…" She winked at her and mouthed 'yeah'.

"You're _bad_. Does Jim know?"

"He only knows what I tell him. So…no."

"You're so awesome! I _knew_ there was a reason I liked you!"

Sylvia shrugged modestly saying, "How's the life in here?"

"Boring," Barbara answered flatly, her eyes flickering up at the ceiling.

"Maybe you'll get out soon."

"Maybe. Hey, do you have a phone on you?"

"No. They had me put everything outside. Why do you need a phone?"

Slyly, she answered, "No reason."

"Barbara."

"Yeah?"

"I really do miss you," Sylvia confided, smiling at her sadly.

"You know you look just like Jim when you're being sincere?" Barbara asked; she held out her hand.

Sylvia took it and felt Barbara squeeze her hand.

"I miss you too," Barbara said quietly.

"See you around," Sylvia promised.

"Send me a picture of that marvelous wedding! I _do_ love seeing you in dresses!" Barbara called as Sylvia stood and started heading out the door.

"Will do!" Sylvia returned, waving at her.

She left the room and was approached by one of the orderlies. He was a big man, stocky.

"You forgot the rules," He said gruffly. "'No touching the inmate'."

Sylvia shrugged saying, "Must've slipped my mind."

She moved past him, and he watched her resentfully.

**Chapter 9: The Day Before**

Sylvia chopped tomatoes and garnishes on the kitchen counter, helping out the servants' head of staff, Mr. Bell. Mr. Bell was French in his own right, but he had an American accent; his whole name was Jolie Belchexivereau (pronounced Belk-EYE-Veh-Row), but seeing as that was a mouthful, he permitted people to call him 'Mr. Bell' or _Monsieur_ Bell, if one insisted; it made him more American and it saved countless of hours of mispronunciation.

As the servants' head of the Falcone Mansion (now dubbed the Cobblepot Mansion), Mr. Bell was in charge of overseeing all of his staff's duties, to include but not limited to cleaning, cooking, greeting the many people that would come in and out of the large humble abode, and reconciling any of the oversights that might be caused by the cooks, maids, or butlers. He and the servants shared a chalet just behind the mansion that fit every three people to a room; the Falcones had taken care of them very well, and the same treatment was given generously by Oswald.

Mr. Bell was a large man, but not to be mistaken for obese. He was bigboned; his family had commonly been mistaken for giants back 'in the days of old' (as he called it). He regularly ate salads, and even kept a high exercise regime which he normally completed before the day's shift began (around 8 AM) that consisted of regular cardio and aggressive strength training.

He was the most well-dressed of his staff with ironed lapels of his white-and-black suit, and carried a lint brush in one pocket: a comb, in the other. The latter was a joke as he didn't have any hair. His shoes were shiny, always polished as though he did them the day before (one couldn't rule this out as a possibility), and if he saw something go amiss, he was quick to apologize and rectify the mistake.

At the ripe age of 45, he was probably one of the most charming men that Sylvia had the pleasure of meeting, running second to Oswald Cobblepot.

It was after much insistence on Sylvia's part that he finally resigned to letting her help him prepare and prep the steak sautéed in Turkish gravy, and the appetizers of chopped salad and finger sandwiches. Dessert, he said, was a planned recipe for a cranberry crumble.

"What's _your_ story, Monsieur Bell?" Sylvia asked, glancing at the man who had been humming a delightfully pleasant tune as he covered the raw steak in the creamy gravy.

"My story is a bore," He said, tittering softly. "I'd much prefer to hear yours."

"I don't have a story."

"You're the daughter of a famous District Attorney, and James Gordon's sister—and you're marrying Gotham's Kingpin. And you dare to tell me you haven't a story to tell?" Mr. Bell exclaimed dramatically, placing a white-gloved hand over his chest where his heart would be. "You must be kidding!"

"You certainly know how to embellish things."

"I hear you've finished the finer details of the wedding. Is that true?"

"Nearly."

"Nearly true or nearly done?"

"Both? I anticipate it will all go well, but I doubt it'll go the way I want it to."

"What would be the hiccup?"

She started slicing the carrots for the stew, the knife sawed smoothly through the vegetable like it was melted butter. _Slice…slice…slice…_ It was hypnotic, the sound alone.

"Jim says he'll come."

"And you think he won't?"

"I think he will."

"Then you should be thrilled."

_Slice…slice…_

"I should be," said Sylvia softly. "I'm trying not to put so much hope in the idea that he'll actually do what he says."

_Slice…slice…slice…_

"Well, then. If that's the case, would it be so bad if he didn't?" Mr. Bell inquired lightly. He approached her, placing a hand on the countertop within a good safe distance from Sylvia's chopping circle. "His presence seems to warrant a great deal of drama that has no place during a wedding."

"I don't care," said Sylvia, glancing at Mr. Bell. "He's my _brother_. It's my _wedding_. He should be there for it—He says he'll give me away, walk me down the aisle…to Oswald. If that's not a step in the right direction, I don't know what is."

"This wedding isn't just about you and Master Cobblepot becoming one, is it, Miss Sylvia?"

_Slice…slice, slice…slice…_

"You're perceptive, Mr. Bell. And you're right: it's more than that," Sylvia admitted, nodding. "If Jim comes to the wedding, it means that we can put this whole mess that we've been dealing with behind us. It's a new beginning, for all of us. I want it more than anything."

"I should be so bold to say that it sounds like this brother of yours has disappointed you at _every_ turn. Perhaps, you _are_ putting a lot of hope in this one-time event? For him to prove himself that he isn't entirely heartless?"

Sylvia placed the knife sharply on the counter, glowering at Mr. Bell.

"I never said he was 'heartless'. And he hasn't disappointed me at _every_ turn," Sylvia said harshly. "He's come through a couple times…he's a cop—he has a job to do, much like the rest of us. I can't expect him to be at my every beck and call—that's abominable, and…and it's unfair to him."

"Who are you trying to convince, milady?" Mr. Bell asked gently. "Me, or you? It sounds like you've rehearsed that entire conversation in your head multiple times."

"More than I care to admit," Sylvia muttered, returning back to the carrots.

"By all means, I did not mean to offend. I just worry…for your happiness," Mr. Bell reassured quickly, his hands held up, palms facing her.

"'Happiness'?" Sylvia recited the word like it was strange and unfamiliar. "Do you know what my happiness would include, Monsieur Bell?"

Mr. Bell lowered his hands, a silent invitation for her to confide in him.

"Happiness," she said, "would be for me to have my wedding, to walk down the aisle with my brother. He'd hold my hand, and when we arrived at the altar, he'd kiss the back, and then give me away to Oswald. He'd be happy and stand on my side of the altar—no arguments to be had. It would be perfect. When the ceremony is over, and when Oswald and I have said our 'I do's, he will dance with me during the first song while Oswald and our guests happily looked on. He would tell me 'I've never seen you look happier', and together, we would dance—as brother and the newly wed, Mrs. Cobblepot."

She smiled at the carrots on her cutting board; she had dreamt of that moment many times. It almost seemed real, but now, it was just out of reach. Sylvia smiled sentimentally at Mr. Bell, who mirrored her in the same hopeful way.

"And you think it will work out this way?" Mr. Bell assumed softly, unable to hide the small smile after hearing the longing in her voice.

"I do. At least, I hope it does. It would be just _perfect_."

"For your happiness, malady, I hope it does happen, then." Mr. Bell said sincerely. "Now, let's finish prepping these vegetables—they're not going to sauté themselves, now will they!"

He nudged her playfully in the rib with his elbow, winking at her, and they continued to slice and dice away.

Already exhausted from today's window-shopping with Victor, dealing with Gregor, the interrogative mental battle with Strange, and the back-and-forth with Barbara, Sylvia was ready to end the day; but the meal prep was for tomorrow's reception. The whole meal took an allotted 24-hours to prep, while the actual cooking would only take an hour, at best. The staff would be working on it just as Sylvia and Oswald said their 'I-do's and the Mansion was where the reception was being held.

Mr. Bell and Sylvia finished the prepping; after, he insisted that she break from the kitchen as he prepared tonight's meal, and he'd call them when it was finished.

"Are you sure?" Sylvia asked steadily.

"You're _tired_ , Miss Sylvia. You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow and I _refuse_ for you to spend your last night as a Gordon with **me** of all people!"

Just as Sylvia resigned to allow Mr. Bell to have his way, she and the Head of the Staff both turned their heads when Oswald came strolling into the kitchen, cane in hand, accompanied by Victor, who politely smiled at her.

"Where are you two heading off to?" Sylvia asked curiously (Mr. Bell appeared just as befuddled).

"We're going to pay Commissioner Loeb a little visit," said Victor, grinning broadly.

"Why…Did Jim…?" Sylvia stopped herself, then smiled kindly at Mr. Bell. "Would you excuse us?"

"Of course." Mr. Bell said, clearing his throat, and then bowed out of the room.

Sylvia turned to Oswald: "Did Jim go to Barker?"

"Obviously," Oswald said, gesturing to Victor. "He did his part; it's time to do ours."

"You're going to Loeb tonight?" Sylvia inquired incredulously.

"I'd have given you a day's notice, but you've seemed preoccupied. How was the visit at Arkham?"

"Drab. Are you going to his house?"

"Of course," said Victor, still grinning. "We thought we'd ask if you'd like to come along—seeing as how the same man sicced the Ogre on your brother."

Oswald glanced at Victor, before looking at Sylvia expectantly.

"Sure! I'd love to come along."

"You're not killing anyone." Oswald forewarned.

"Fine by me," Sylvia returned, holding a hand up in a promise. "I'm too tired to kill people anyway. Talking to a psychiatrist is physically _draining_."

"Why were you talking to a psychiatrist?" Oswald asked, concerned.

" **Let's** **_go_**!" Victor snapped impatiently through gritted teeth.

Sylvia raised her eyebrows at him in surprise; Oswald gestured for her to go on ahead of him. She beamed and, with a bounce in her step, she sauntered down the long corridor, not before stopping and letting Mr. Bell know that the vegetables and roast were all prepped to go into the refrigerator for tomorrow's big event.

It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning cracked through the sky; the thunder echoed not too far behind. It hadn't started raining yet, but Sylvia suspected that it would. The sun never seemed to shine for too long in Gotham; and the clouds were adamant to cover the full moon in the sky.

Getting into Commissioner Loeb's house was disappointedly easy. Two guards were posted outside. Sitting in the car, Victor sat in the driver's seat; Oswald, in the passenger side, while Sylvia occupied the back.

"If we sit here long enough, the guards will notice us," Sylvia said calmly.

"Be patient," Oswald said dismissively. Business-like, he turned to Victor: "Are you ready?"

"I've _been_ ready," He reassured, his grin was as wide as the horizon. "I'll get both of them; they make for really easy targets."

"You're killing them?" Sylvia asked curiously.

"Why not," said Victor as he checked his babies in their holsters. "As complacent as they're standing, they deserve to die."

"That's right," Sylvia teased, "give them a firm 'talking-to'. A pocketful of dreams, a bullet in the eyes. _That'll_ teach them."

"Has anyone ever told you that you overuse sarcasm?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you don't use it enough?"

"Will the _both_ of you be quiet?" Oswald chastised, glancing behind him at both Sylvia and Victor, respectively.

"It's all in fun, Boss," said Victor. "Trust me. If we had a disagreement, _she'd_ let you know."

"Fuck you, Victor."

"You first."

Oswald let out an exasperated sigh, smacking the dashboard as a registered warning for them to quiet themselves. He then glanced at Victor.

"Go." Oswald ordered.

"Don't mind if I do!" Victor happily responded, getting out of the driver's seat, and taking out both of his babies, ready to fire away as he pleased.

Sylvia made a point to get out of the back, but Oswald leaned back and grabbed her wrist.

"Not yet." He said sternly.

Sylvia opened her mouth to object, but Oswald wasn't watching _her._ He watched Victor, making certain that it was safe for the object of his desire to leave the safety of the car once the two guards had been disposed of. Sylvia detected that slightest possessive trait, inwardly grinning when he didn't let her go until the sound of two shots being fired echoed past the door.

Oswald stepped out of the car, followed shortly by Sylvia. She kept his pace, walking with her hands folded contentedly behind her back. When they entered through the back door, Sylvia and Oswald casually glanced at Victor, who was busy cutting one of the guard's heads off its shoulders.

"Isn't that overkill?" Sylvia asked flatly.

"You're just jealous."

"No denial there," She muttered, glaring enviously at him. "You're getting all the fun today."

"I thought you took care of Gregor," Oswald reminded thoughtfully.

" _He_ took care of Gregor," Sylvia corrected hastily, pointing at Victor. "Nailed his knees, shot him in the head. I didn't get to enjoy any of it. So, really, you owe me a body."

Oswald rolled his eyes saying, "Victor, if another guard comes up to defend the Commissioner, let Sylvia do the honors, please?"

Victor said pointedly, "By all means."

Just as they spoke, a man appeared from the darkness, shouting, "Who's there!"

Sylvia sprinted towards the voice, jumped onto the man, and wrapped her legs around the unexpected victim's throat. She brought him down the floor, and with a vice-like grip of her hands on each side of his jaw, she quickly turned it so his neck snapped—this all happened before Oswald and Victor even noticed the third guard's presence.

" _Damn_ ," Victor exclaimed, grinning widely. "You've got _moves._ Where'd you learn to move like that?"

Sylvia gathered herself to her feet, smirking: "You know Mr. Bell from the kitchen?"

"The cook?"

"Yep—he can be a pretty good trainer, knows a thing or two about martial arts."

"Surprising, and a _little_ disturbing," Victor pointed out; he glanced at Oswald, who was still staring at Sylvia with both admiration and equal surprise.

He had nothing to say, although the small little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth said a few things all on its own. He walked into the kitchen.

The three of them had skipped out on what could have been a very nourishing dinner cooked by Mr. Bell. Now, they would make their own light meal from whatever Loeb had in the cabinets. There wasn't much—and Sylvia found that to be the most surprising thing about Loeb's furnishings.

"It's fucking dark in here," Sylvia mumbled as she lifted herself onto the counter.

The lightning flashed through the glass window, offering some light for only a few seconds before the darkness swallowed them whole once more.

"You should be used to moving around in the dark, Pigeon." A light tease resounded in his voice as Oswald grinned knowingly at her.

"Mm-hmm, and you shouldn't sound so condescending."

"I wasn't condescending."

"Also, you weren't complaining about anything last night, so keep your scorn at a minimum."

Oswald and Sylvia exchanged meaningful glances, both unable to hide their smiles while Victor rolled his eyes. Why did he feel like he was a constant third wheel in their operations? Perhaps he was, and he chose to look at it as being a guardian or chaperone—goodness knows what Sylvia had in mind to do to his boss if they'd been left alone in a stranger's kitchen in the dark.

The thought made him roll his eyes again.

"He doesn't even know we're here," Sylvia stated. "We should at least make a little noise."

"She has a point, Boss."

"I don't—" Oswald began, but Sylvia and Victor ignored him and they both gathered pots and pants from the cabinets beneath the sink and raucously banged them together, whooping and hollering.

Oswald turned and bowed over the sink, closing his eyes as he made a scathing noise. 'Why did he choose to bring _both_ of them along?' He wondered. Sylvia and Victor acted like _children_ when they were together.

"Would you _stop_!" He snapped, irately glancing between them. "You're giving me a headache."

"Aww," Sylvia cooed (Victor threw the pots in the cabinet, looking disappointed.).

Ignoring them, Victor mozied on over to the hallway, checking out the other closets and closed cabinets. Oswald turned around when Sylvia rubbed his right shoulder, and she stood prominently in front of him; her body pressed against his. Heat radiated from her and made him feel uncomfortably hot and bothered.

"Not here," Oswald told her, brushing her hands from his chest.

"All business with you, huh?" Sylvia taunted. "Would Loeb finding you in his kitchen making out with me embarrass you?"

"Yes, it would," Oswald answered honestly.

"We're going to kill him anyway, right?"

"Not if he does what I want," Oswald told her. "Murder can't always be on your mind, Pigeon."

"It's not. I also think about having sex with you every minute of every day."

Oswald sighed in resignation as Sylvia approached him once more, her hands playing with his collar.

"I'm thinking of it right now, actually." She whispered. "You can't be too sore about that. Besides, you wouldn't complain if I got on my knees and had my way with you, _would_ you, Daddy Penguin?"

"You're insatiable." He stated quietly although his ears perked at pet name spoken in sensual tones.

She leaned into him, her tongue licking his earlobe as she breathed, "Yep, and right now, I'm horny as fuck."

"Someone needs another lesson in self- _control_ ," Oswald said with an attempt of sounding stern, but when her hand grabbed him through his pants, he stammered through it.

"I liked the lesson. May I have another?" Sylvia purred.

Oswald shakily took her hands and moved them away from where he admittedly still needed her. But it wasn't time for intimacy; this was something that needed to be done without joking or horse-playing. Sylvia raised her eyebrows quickly with some indifference, but she lowered her hands obediently to her side.

"You know I can't help myself."

"I know, Pigeon. And you know what it does to me when you talk like that. But not here, not now. We have business to tend to," Oswald told her sincerely.

Victor snorted from the hallway, "He has dolphin figurines!"

Sylvia darted from the kitchen to the hallway to check out these said figurines while Oswald found the bread cupboard, lifted the door, and was satisfied to find a half-loaf of bread sitting there. He took it out, and started searching for a jar of peanut butter.

"How'd you cut the head off so easily?" Sylvia asked, looking down at the guard. "Do you have a knife that cuts through bone?"

"Yes."

"Can I have it?"

"No!" Victor quickly denied. "Get your own!"

"I want yours!"

"You know, taken out of context, this would sound _really_ bad." Victor uttered with a hint of amusement.

"In your fucking dreams," Sylvia said as she shook her head.

Sylvia knelt down, admiring the hitman's handiwork. Victor stepped forward, minding her figure.

"Hi!" He greeted.

Sylvia glanced up from her squat, slowly straightening as she looked upon a robed Commissioner Loeb, whose eyes confusedly darted between her and Victor; he looked enraged when he first saw Sylvia, and became more terrified when he saw the man standing in front of her.

Oswald glanced behind and happily smiled as he turned to look at Loeb, asking, "Do you have any peanut butter?"

"What?" The Commissioner questioned, suddenly annoyed.

Oswald leaned forward, flicked the switch, and a burst of dim sunshine filled the kitchen. Sylvia smirked when Loeb looked a little more intimidated, realizing that he stood in front of Gotham's own kingpin.

"Peanut butter," Oswald repeated. "Smooth, for preference."

Loeb looked around uncomfortably, saying, "Guards! Help! _Help_!"

Victor knelt down, picked up the very head that Sylvia was admiring. He showed his ventriloquist skills (or lack of) as he imitated the goon's voice, saying, "Oh, hey, boss! How 'bout a bottle of beer!"

Sylvia, Oswald, and Victor laughed, while Loeb looked increasingly intimidated. Victor stepped towards the counters, and the head flopped into the sink with a 'thud'. Sylvia prowled past him and then hopped onto the counter, sitting adjacent to where Oswald currently stood. Oswald looked at her once-over, acknowledging the uncomfortably pleasing fact that the same heat she'd radiated now seemed completely invested in him. He made a note to ignore it as best he could…for now.

Sylvia reached up behind her to the cupboards; when she found the peanut butter, she handed it to Oswald who thanked her politely before slathering a piece of bread with it.

"Let me share a dilemma with you," said Oswald, turning to Loeb. "May I?"

Loeb had nothing to say, of course. He was too terrified to even move from where he was standing. Taking his stoned silence as a 'yes', Oswald turned in the corner.

"I need you to do something for me that I know you won't want to do," He informed.

Hesitant, but bold, Loeb said, "What is it?"

"With most people, there's no problem," Oswald continued, ignoring him. "I find their weak spots and use either violence or blackmail to persuade them. But _you_ " (Loeb glanced uneasily at Victor then at him) "you are a man of _monkish_ virtue. You have no vices to expose, so threats of personal violence will only strength your resolve, huh?"

"No, that—" Loeb began to protest, but he was stiffened into silence when Oswald took a plastic bowl and threw it sharply on the counter, making Loeb flinch.

Sylvia grinned, seeing him so scared. It was _delicious_.

"Come, sir, don't be modest," Oswald taunted. "You are a rare animal."

Loeb glanced at Sylvia, disheartened, and humiliated that she was able to see this side of him, but he couldn't say anything lest it provoked her fiancé to lash out. Whatever request the Penguin had to make of him, he seemed willing to accommodate—he mustn't lose this small sliver of a chance just to insult the sister of the man that was most responsible and likely for having put him in this situation in the first place!

Steadily, Victor advanced towards Loeb. It was hard for the Commissioner to keep a tab on Sylvia and Oswald while still keeping close an eye on the man that would most likely bring about his demise. It was a scare tactic that was working very well!

"That does lead us to a sad pickle," Oswald continued with feigned disappointment. "Since I can't persuade you to do as I ask, the only rational option left would be to kill you and then negotiate with whomever takes your place as Commissioner."

That said, Victor nimbly pulled out the gun holstered on his right and said eagerly, "Now, Chief?"

"Just one moment, Victor," Oswald said sincerely. "The Commissioner needs time to process this—say a prayer, or what have you."

Loeb said with forced calm (that was bordering the line of fear): "What do you want me to do?"

"It's not worth talking about. _You_ wouldn't do it."

"Tell me," Loeb all but growled, in an attempt to hide his obvious terror.

Sylvia attempted to suppress a giggle, grinning widely at Loeb's predicament. Too bad she hadn't brought a tape recorder with her; this would have been an excellent gift for her brother's birthday!

As a point to make, Oswald straightened and said matter-of-factually, "I need my friend, Jim Gordon, reinstated as a detective."

Immediately, Loeb exhaled disgustedly through his nose, grimacing.

Oswald snickered, "See! I told you! You hate that idea" as he came back to the corner of the kitchen counters while Sylvia and Victor glanced at one another with the same satisfaction.

"No!" Loeb insisted. "I'll do it!"

"Mm-mm! I can tell you're not sincere," Oswald stated calmly. "Even if you do as I ask now, someday down the line, you'll change your mind, and turn on him again." He winked at Sylvia, saying, "And we can't have that happening…can we?"

"Not at all." Sylvia agreed, grinning wickedly at Loeb.

Victor cocked the gun, bringing Sylvia and Loeb's attention to him.

With his impatience subsided and more or less, being bored, Victor said flatly, "Do you want me to kill him _now_?"

"No," said Oswald sarcastically. "Make him a nice cheese toastie—yes, kill him now, please!"

"Just trying to be clear," said Victor cynically as he stepped towards Loeb, and aimed the gun at him.

"No! Wait!" The Commissioner shouted. "Let's talk about this!"

"Sorry," said Oswald. "It's the least worst option."

Victor caressed his index finger over the trigger; Loeb began to shake, and Sylvia's eyes brightened with anticipation.

"Unless, of course…" Oswald began, making Loeb looked at him desperately. "No…no, you'd never agree!"

"WHAT?" Loeb shouted helplessly. "AGREE TO WHAT?"

Oswald smirked at him, and glanced at Victor who wordlessly lowered the gun as though obeying a nonverbal order. Sylvia sighed, glaring at Oswald.

"You're going to let him _live_?" She questioned, disheartened. "That's fucking anticlimactic, babe."

"Does Gordon know you're here?" Loeb said breathlessly, glaring at her.

"He doesn't," said Sylvia pointedly. "But you, _Commissioner_ , are on my ever-lasting shit list for what you've done to him. I was hoping you'd die tonight, but…"

She glowered at Oswald unhappily; he tilted his head forward, his stern gaze meeting hers.

Victor smirked when Sylvia contemplated doing the obvious as she narrowed her eyes at Loeb before hopping off the counter. She passed by him, making a point to shove her shoulder roughly against his so he nearly stumbled over.

"You'll have to forgive her," Oswald said apologetically. "She has a pretty bad temper…"

"Remind you of anyone?" Victor said darkly, grinning at Loeb.

"It…It does," said Loeb quietly. "Now that you mention it, I think I prefer Gordon."

"Which one?" Victor teased, smirking.

Loeb looked as though he might curse, but instead, he lowered his gaze and said to Oswald, "What do you want from me?"

"You're going to retire," Oswald said patiently. "You will have a ceremony, go out with a 'bang', if you will. Either way, you will leave your position for someone who will—without a doubt—reinstate James Gordon to the rank of detective."

"Essen!" Sylvia piped up from the hallway, hidden from view. " _She_ likes Jim!"

Loeb glowered in that direction.

Peeping from the said hallway, Sylvia offered, "It's either her or Harvey Bullock—but you made the latter quit, so you have only one choice, _Commissioner_ …Also, why the **hell** do you have so many dolphin figurines on your shelves?"

Loeb spoke hoarsely, "Fine. Done. What else?"

"Anything you have on the officers of the GCPD will be given to me," Oswald said calmly.

"I don't have anything—" Loeb began.

"Bull. Shit." Sylvia said, slithering back into the kitchen. "You have a million things on the cops in the GCPD. You gave Jim and Harvey their file when Jim confronted you about your homely little daughter, ain't that right?"

Loeb frowned.

"Answer her, pipsqueak." Victor ordered, lifting his gun to aim at Loeb again.

"Yes!" Loeb shouted, crossing his arms, and glowering at the two of them. "She's right."

"See? Mommy knows a liar," Sylvia cooed.

Hearing her, an emotion briefly flickered in Oswald's eyes that shouldn't have been there.

She approached Loeb who instinctively took a step back from her. "You're scared, aren't you, Commissioner?"

"You're more out of control that James Gordon ever was."

"You'll do well to remember that, yeah?" Sylvia said softly. She poked him in the glasses, grinning widely, and then she strolled through the kitchen, looking through the pantries until she found a box of Pop Tarts.

"I'll make Essen the Commissioner. And I'll give you what I have on the GCPD…Anything else?"

"That's all I have," Oswald said, nodding in satisfaction. "Sylvia?"

Sylvia swallowed the bite of the pastry and said pointedly, "I want you retired _tomorrow_."

"That's a little demanding…" Loeb began.

"Is it?" Sylvia retorted. "Call it a 'wedding present'. You have resources at your beck-and-call, and Gotham's people think you're the best thing since _Lay's_ came out with the potato chip. You can use that power to do what I want."

"That's unreasonable."

Sylvia shrugged, looking at Oswald: "Is he right? Am I being unreasonable?"

Oswald smirked saying, "Don't be ridiculous. It's last-minute, but doable."

Loeb looked at a loss for words.

"Good. Then if there's nothing else, I believe we're done here," Oswald said, tapping his fingers on the counter. "It's a shame we won't be in attendance; I hear retirement ceremonies for police officers are absolutely beautiful." As an afterthought, he said, "Maybe they'll tape it for us."

"Production values suck at these things, Boss," Victor informed. "I don't think it'll be the same."

"That's a shame. I always wanted to view a ceremony for a corrupted has-been. But this is Gotham; I'm sure we'll have plenty of opportunities."

Loeb said boldly, " _You're_ corrupted."

"Yeah," said Sylvia with a small exhale as she approached him once more, her face nearly touching his. "But I've admitted that _long_ ago. You, my friend, have lived in _constant_ denial of it, even after the fact. And once you retire, I want you to slither back into your hole or back under whatever hole from whence you came."

Loeb suddenly had a great difficulty din swallowing and Sylvia's wide grin danced maliciously on her features. She winked at him, and then breezed into the living room to admire the other figurines that sat on the entertainment center, making a point to mock him further.

Oswald and Victor exchanged amused glances, noticing how much she just reveled in this moment. Clearly, Loeb was through with being pushed around, but unable to do anything about it. Sylvia deserved this much, having suffered through Loeb's need to torture her brother with demotion and even putting the Ogre on his trail—and thereby putting _her_ life in danger.

It wasn't until Loeb was shaking with rage and fear when Sylvia finally tired of the fun and left the house; Oswald and Victor followed after her.

**Chapter 10: Mama Pigeon**

Author's Note: **Okay, first things first: major warning here** : There is pegging, and anal play involved in this chapter, and the mommy kink is strong in this one. If that is something that puts you off or something you can't read, I _highly_ advise skipping the chapter because, lord have mercy, did I let my mind get dirty tonight! All aside, I think I've kept Oswald in character for something he's never done (in canon, at least), and I hope you all enjoy reading it as I have enjoyed writing it

Sylvia couldn't remember much from last night after she, Victor, and Oswald left Commissioner Loeb's house. Hell, she didn't even remember changing into pajamas and crawling her ass into bed—but apparently, she did. She awoke in the red tank top but had traded her capris for booty shorts; her boots were thrown to the floor, lying lopsided near the bedroom door.

"What the…" Sylvia mumbled.

She looked to her immediate right, and smiled when she saw Oswald still wearing his suit from last night—his tie was undone, his dress coat placed on the foot of the bed, and the rest of him was disheveled.

The comforters weren't even pulled out of the corners and she wasn't sore—Sylvia presumed that they had come to bed and fallen asleep right where they'd lied down. It made sense: between running the club, running the empire, finding Gregor, the dress, and everything in between, Sylvia and Oswald may as well have exhausted themselves.

But with the realization of the day, Sylvia beamed, immediately awake and no longer groggy.

She was getting married! She was going to become Mrs. Oswald Cobblepot (or Mrs. Penguin, depending on who addressed her, really).

She bit her bottom lip in suppressed giddiness, glancing at Oswald who mumbled in his sleep. His words weren't audible, but he was so cute when he talked. If it weren't for the fact that they had to take care of several things before the evening arrived, Sylvia might have let him sleep in—god knows, he needed a long nap.

Carefully shaking his shoulder, Sylvia stirred him out of his deep sleep.

"Mmmm-mmm!" Oswald whined; he turned on his stomach, pulled the pillow closer to him and shoved his face into it, trying to hide from the oppressing sunlight boring into the bedroom.

"Ozzie, get your ass out of bed," Sylvia said, poking his head. "We have too much to do to sleep in."

"Mmm…"

"I _know_ you're not asleep."

"Hmph!"

"Get _up_ , damn it." Sylvia said sternly, getting to her knees. She pushed him towards the end of the bed; maybe the sensation of falling would get him going.

"Stop…pushing me…" Oswald groaned, lifting his head enough so one blue eye peeked from the pillow. "I'm awake."

"You're going to fall back to sleep if you don't get up right now."

"I'm not."

"You _will_. You _know_ you will. And then who will you blame? Me"

"I'm not…falling asleep…" Oswald murmured. "I'm resting my eyes, woman."

"Yeah, that's what you said the day before—and you fell right back to sleep…and you're doing it right now!"

Oswald groaned loudly, and she chuckled at the sound.

"Well, 'King of Gotham', if you want to sleep the day away, be my guest." Sylvia sighed as she slid out of bed. "I have to drop by the club and make sure Tiffany has everything handled before she starts taking pictures at the church; I still have a few more invitations to give out too…"

Oswald yawned and rolled onto his side, facing Sylvia, who ambled towards the closet and pulled out a black turtleneck with a white, knee-length skirt. Wordlessly, she undressed, taking off her top, revealing her perky braless breasts; as she shimmied out of her boy shorts, she heard a soft exhale of interest come from his direction.

She glanced at him, and saw that he was watching her, fully awake.

"Like what you see, huh?" Sylvia said with a soft smile.

"Mm-hmm," Oswald hummed, smiling back at her.

Sylvia stepped out of her boy shorts, pulling down her underwear with it. She straightened and slowly walked towards Oswald, who sat up.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" Sylvia asked.

"Not much," Oswald answered. He made a soft sound in his throat, licking his bottom lip as she stood within reaching distance.

She moved out of his reach when he made a point to touch her. Sylvia grinned wickedly when his expression shifted from eagerness to confusion.

"That's what I thought," She breathed. "You know, I'd call this 'payback'."

She turned around and wiggled her rump.

"Payback for what?" Oswald asked incredulously.

Sylvia turned to look at him, smirking: "I was _all over_ you last night. But you weren't interested."

"If I recall correctly, you wanted to have sex in Commissioner Loeb's kitchen," Oswald said pointedly. "It was tempting, believe me, but inappropriate."

"Perhaps it being inappropriate was why it was so tempting."

"You're not wrong."

"Do you want me _now_?"

She touched her breasts, caressing and teasing her nipples, sliding them down her rib cage, to her stomach, over the soft apex of her hip bones, all the while she performed a teasing, slow dance in front of him.

His lips parted ever so slightly; his eyes dilated to the point the cerulean irises were covered. She could practically see his mouth watering, and he reached out to touch her yet again. And just as before, Sylvia moved away.

"Use your big boy voice, sweetheart." Sylvia purred. "Tell Mama what you want from her."

Oswald scoffed, "You're not serious…"

"You _like_ it when I refer to myself as 'Mama', Ozzie." Sylvia said, her voice was buttery soft but there was still an edge to it—like a mother chastising her child, without yelling. "I _saw_ your face last night when I called myself 'Mommy'…and, now. You're blushing."

Oswald's skin tingled at the sound of it; an uncomfortable, but not so unpleasant, warm feeling trickled inside his abdomen. A guilty pleasure, a forbidden fruit that he wanted to taste but was afraid to ask.

"Call me 'Mama', Oswald. And I'll promise you can have a taste, hmm?"

He looked at her, still incredulous to her request. However, she lowered one of her hands to her sex, a single digit slipped inside of her so easily and withdrew; Sylvia brought the finger to her lip, and sucked down to the knuckle, her delectable honey.

At his strong hesitation to do what she asked, Sylvia leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth. He turned his head, so her kiss landed squarely on his lips; with her tongue, she divided the line where they met. Sylvia explored his mouth, her hands lifting to cradle his face in her palms. When she found his tongue, she let out a slow, soft hum.

"It's no different than what I call you. Isn't that right, Daddy Penguin?"

Oswald didn't respond. Not at first.

"Mommies and Daddies play with each other. _Don't_ they?"

Oswald could taste the honey on Sylvia's tongue, the brand of euphoria he preferred, the drug to which he was solely addicted.

" _This_ is how Mama Pigeon wants to play," She coerced, sucking his bottom lip gently. "Now…Does Ozzie want a taste?"

"Yes."

"Yes, _what_?"

Oswald blushed a shade of beet red as he whispered, "Yes, Mama."

"Mm…" Sylvia purred. "Now, how hard was that?"

Oswald's eyes flashed at her. Sylvia thought it was a glare of daggers, but the hard-on in his pants said otherwise. Seeing the effect that she had on him from just this alone made Sylvia's insides melt like butter. How far could she take it though?

Oswald was hard when she submitted to him. His need for control was obvious—but there was a dark part of him that longed and craved to be under hers. The way his face flushed, bringing out the freckles that adorned his face, made Sylvia smile.

"Strip," She ordered.

Oswald defiantly remained still, and Sylvia grinned. She'd hoped he would react this way.

"You said—" He began.

"I know what I said," Sylvia cut him off. "Now, do as I say. Strip. When you've done that, lie on your back."

She readied herself for a snappy response, a short-tempered tantrum that would come out from hearing her condescend to him, but no such response came. Instead, he softly cleared his throat, and stood to his feet.

"Okay."

He'd spoken so softly, Sylvia had to question whether or not she had actually heard him! His quiet submission drove a pleasurable jolt down to her sex; Sylvia grinned widely when Oswald stripped, placing the clothes at the foot of the bed with his dress coat, and he lied in the middle of the mattress on his back.

"You know, I _did_ buy something for last night," Sylvia stated as she walked around the bed and stooped to the bed side table. "But I suppose we were so tired, we just passed out on the bed. But…since you were such a fucking cock tease last night, I figure you can make it up to me this morning."

Oswald glanced at Sylvia, noticing she called _him_ a 'cock tease' instead of the other way around. And when he saw what she held in her hand, he registered her meaning quickly. A wicked, impish smile curved the finer lines of her mouth as she held up a leather harness, and a short but girthy, apricot-colored dildo.

"What do you intend to do with that?" He questioned calmly, although he wouldn't dare admit that his heart was attempting to sledge-hammer through his chest cavity at the moment.

"During one of your lessons about self-control, you teased me, and I told you that if you didn't fuck me right then and there, I would do something to you. Do you remember what I said I would do?"

"You'd fuck me with a—" Oswald recalled quietly.

"—A strap-on, yes. And _I_ was serious," Sylvia replied, placing the harness on the bed. "Were _you_?"

"Half-serious."

Sylvia opened the bed side table and placed a large bottle of Lubriderm on the surface.

Oswald glanced it wearily: "I reiterate: 'what do you intend to do with—'"

Sylvia said lightly, "I'm going to put this on" (she held up the harness) "smother this sex toy with as much lube as humanly possible. Once I have, I'm going to finger your virgin ass until you're begging for it to be fucked—"

"Sylvia—" Oswald began shakily.

"—and I will only acknowledge what you say when you call me either 'Mama', 'Mama Pigeon', or 'ma'am'." Sylvia finished, unaffected by his widened eyes and quivering voice, speaking matter of fact. "If you don't want me to do this, tell me 'no'. And we will forget this all together, but we'll still have sex because, frankly, seeing you naked gets me wet. What do you say?"

Oswald looked at her, in the middle of an internal battle it seemed. Hearing her tell him what she wanted to do to him, it was too good not to take her on. And she said she would be gentle at first…that seemed like a promise she solely intended on keeping.

"I need your spoken consent, babe," She told him when he nodded.

"Yes."

"Be specific, Ozzie. What do you want me to do to you?"

Oswald's face and neck flushed the same color of magenta as he whispered, "I want you to fuck me…Mama Pigeon."

"In time," Sylvia promised. "First things first. Lie on your stomach."

Oswald pressed his lips together into a white line, and with much resignation (but equal anticipation), he did as he was told.

"Turn, so you're lying horizontally on the bed," Sylvia clarified.

He shifted, and felt his feet hovering above the floor, taut with the rest of his body. He watched Sylvia amble around the room, and she pulled the full-length mirror from behind the closet door, so it was now in front of him; he peered at his own flushed reflection. In the mirror, Oswald saw Sylvia move to the bedroom door; she opened it briefly just so her head peeped out from the crack so neither of their naked bodies would be seen.

He heard her tell one of the servants not to come in, no matter what they might hear. Oswald's cock twitched at this perverse order, and a small smile crept to his mouth. Sylvia now stood at the mirror; her beautiful naked body straightened.

"You're wondering, I bet, why I put this mirror in front of you." Sylvia stated lightly, gesturing to his reflection.

"Something like that," Oswald admitted.

"Men, like you, are visual creatures. You'll get off on watching me fuck you—it'll be physically stimulating and mentally pleasing, just as _I_ will get off on knowing I'm fucking Gotham's King." Sylvia said casually, shrugging a shoulder as she added, "I've always wondered what it would feel like to be at the top of the pyramid."

"You're not at the top." Oswald pointed out.

"No, that's true. _You_ are. But _I_ will be on top of _you_ ," She sighed, smirking. "That's the fun part about being King and Queen. There's an exchange of power, and I'm going to show you what that feels like. You'll be my strength; and I, my little penguin, am going to be your weakness."

He watched her uncertainly.

"Fun fact: Did you know that in a wolf pack, when an enemy approached," Sylvia said as she stepped into and buckled the harness, "the female will duck so she's hiding under the Alpha's neck. Some would think she's submissive…but that's not inherently true, is it?"

Oswald didn't answer as he watched her intently.

Sternly, she said again, " _Is it_?"

"I don't know much about wolves." Oswald said quietly.

"Well, it's _not_ true." She continued, smirking at him. "In fact, the female is protecting the Alpha's throat. Naturally, wolves are pretty nasty creatures; they're protective, dominant—even playful— but when one of their own gets attacked, they're out for blood."

Oswald watched Sylvia pull her hair up into a high ponytail, but some defiant bangs and strands of hair fell messily around her face.

And, god, was she sexy…Oswald felt his heart hammering harder in his chest, butterflies started flittering away in his stomach.

"And much like the female that protects the Alpha, appears to be submissive and easily controlled," Sylvia sighed, "I appear that way to everyone else, I bet. But _you_ know—better than anyone—I'm anything _but._ "

Oswald glanced up, meeting her eyes.

"You know I love you, don't you?" She uttered affectionately as she knelt down onto the carpet, and met him, eye-level.

"I do."

"Good. I'm glad you do. Because once my dick is in your ass," Sylvia purred as she stroked his face (he nuzzled the palm of her hand with his lips) "I'm going to fuck you like I don't. Do you understand?"

Oswald licked his dry lips: "Yes, ma'am."

"Good." Sylvia cooed, and she kissed his cheek. "Now, if it becomes too much, don't hesitate to stop me. 'No' means 'no' in this situation, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am," Oswald returned, smiling apprehensively.

She kissed him on the lips, and he reciprocated. He watched her get on the bed, taking the bottle of Lubriderm with her, and he felt the weight of the bed shift.

"Put your hands in front of you, Ozzie." Sylvia said gently. "So that you can hold onto the edge."

Oswald shifted and placed his hands on the edge of the mattress, his eyes transfixed on the mirror as Sylvia placed a large gob on her fingers. Oswald breathed in sharply when her lubricated fingers lined with his entrance; the gel was colder than ice compared to the heat radiating from his back side.

But he bit his tongue and closed his eyes and mumbled to himself to 'relax'. He could feel his thigh muscles and stomach were taut with tension, and no one would blame him. He'd never done this before, and Sylvia was already shaping out to be a hard-driven femdom.

"Relax, Oz."

She slowly worked the cuticle of her middle finger inside and Oswald was thankful that she'd taken her nail length into consideration. He tilted his head back, his eyes meeting his own reflection in the mirror; then, they flitted to Sylvia's naked torso then to her face; her lips puckered as she uttered her soft "Shhh"'s to relax him—and it was undeniably working.

"Do you like that?" She whispered.

She had one finger deep inside him, lightly wriggling, and when she curled that digit and touched his prostate, Oswald struggled to stifle an involuntary, needy moan.

"Ooh," She smirked at her own reflection. "I think he _does_."

From her perspective, it was like nothing she'd ever seen before.

The muscles that tightened around her finger contracted with his internal struggle for tension versus forced relaxation; and those were not the only muscles struggling to find ease. As she stood on her knees, Sylvia grinned as her eyes took in Oswald's arms and back muscles flexing in an effort to remain quite still.

Her eyes met his reflection in the mirror, and Sylvia felt empowered when she saw his mouth open, his eyes closed, and his eyebrows knitted together when she found his sweet spot.

She pulled out her finger, covered two fingers with the lubrication, and then just as slowly before, slid them inside—one centimeter, after another. She heard Oswald's attempts of muting his whimpers; his throat stifled them from peeping out, but they were there…just lingering below the surface.

Sylvia spoke; her voice was soothing.

"We all have a button, buried deep inside us, baby. Frankly, I've always wondered if I would know yours if ever I _did_ find it…"

Oswald nodded his head, exhaling deeply and then inhaling sharply when she wiggled her fingers inside like she'd done before; his thighs clenched once more, drawing his feet up, and Sylvia licked her lips at the sight.

"We all have a button we don't want anyone else to know about…one we don't want to admit we want pressed," She drawled. "But guess what…I found _yours_."

She slowly thrusted her two fingers in and out of him; and his body, as though it was in a trance, moved in time with her assistance.

"You like my fingers inside of you, don't you?"

"Yes—mmm!"

She curled her digits inside of him and he let out a needy whine.

Sylvia lied down on her side, so she continued to finger his ass, but she was able to enjoy the view of bliss emanating from his face. She snuggled close to him, her lips nuzzled his ear and she whispered, "You look _so_ vulnerable…so eager, so needy. I wonder if this ass of yours can take three, huh? Let's see…ah…that's a tight fit, but oh…there we go…"

Oswald gritted his teeth, but he didn't deny her. How could he, now? Every time her fingers entered, he was granted a euphoric spark of bliss, something that he wanted to try over and over again; and when she removed those tantalizing fingers of hers, Oswald was left with an emptiness, and immediately, he could feel his body begging for it all over again.

Three fingers inside, moving in and out of him. And his appetite that he'd buried in his loins from last night was steadily becoming an aching pain. His cock was so hard, pleading for attention. His own hand trembled to leave the edge of the bed.

"You want to touch yourself, don't you?" Sylvia drawled. "I can see your mind working in overdrive. I'll give you what you want, sweet baby, but you have to _say it_. Aloud."

"Touch me."

"I _am_ touching you," Sylvia mused, smirking at him.

Oswald glowered at her.

"You want me to touch your cock, huh?" She asked coyly. She leaned into him, and licked his ear, causing him to gasp. "What would you give me in return if I did, my little penguin? Hmm?"

"Anything you want."

"What was that?"

"I'll give you anything you want. Honey, _please_ …"

"I want _this_ …" Sylvia returned; with her free hand, she grabbed his ass, digging her fingertips into his flesh.

"It's yours," Oswald mumbled, looking at her desperately.

He hoped it was what she wanted to hear; her aggression, the darkness of her voice was doing things to him that he never thought were possible; he didn't think he could fall deeper in love with her, but he was wrong!

It seemed to do the trick since she sat up.

"Get on your hands and knees. Keep facing the mirror."

He silently obeyed.

She nearly dumped the whole bottle of lube around his entrance and on the dildo attached to her waist. Oswald admired the curvaceous form behind him, the way her perky breasts looked in the mirror, her nipples taut.

Sylvia had been right; the mirror was aesthetically pleasing. And what the mirror _didn't_ show drove his imagination wild; he felt the flesh-like dildo against his butt cheek, the firm but flexibly curved material slowly rimming his canal.

"Do you remember my promise?" Sylvia whispered.

"Yes."

"Say it aloud for me."

"You're going to fuck me like you hate me."

"Good boy."

Oswald bit his lip when her words of praise registered in his ear and tingled the head of his cock. As she slowly and meticulously probed his ass to open for the dildo that was slowly making its way inside, Sylvia reached around his waist. With her hand already wet and warm with lube, she rubbed his cock from the base of his shaft to the head, her thumb ghosting the tip where he was already leaking precum.

Oswald breathed shallowly, glancing at the mirror when her slow, steady entrance became a slower exit. And when she quickened her pace, Oswald's pupils were full blown when he saw her hips rolling to thrust against his; the black leather encasing the soft contrast of her milky skin made his cock twitch happily.

"Stay up, Oswald," Sylvia encouraged.

Only then did he realize he had slowly been moving down to the mattress, the pleasure so overwhelming that he was losing the strength to stay on all fours.

He panted, "Too…much…"

"Do you want me to stop?" Sylvia questioned, pausing briefly.

"No!" Oswald suddenly whimpered. "Don't stop—I just can't…"

Sylvia gathered his message and said, "Lie on your back then."

She withdrew from him, only long enough so he did as she suggested. Things were reversed in this sort of way, and it only felt awkward for a moment as she hunkered down between his legs, lining the strap-on just perfectly and thrust her hips more forcefully this time. Oswald keened, and Sylvia clamped her hand over his mouth; he licked the palm of her hand gratefully, and she smirked down at him.

One hand muffled his longing moans, Sylvia's other hand kept herself balanced as she grasped the headboard, which kept banging against the wall with each forward push of her hips. Oswald raised his hands above his head, pushing the headboard away so it remained shoved against the wall, and that silenced the annoying thuds. Sylvia let out a small chuckle, and he did too.

Her hand was replaced by her mouth, shoving it against Oswald's when his moans heightened. She was certain that between them, she was the most vocal; but this proved her wrong. Oswald was definitely louder!

"I'm keeping my promise," Sylvia panted.

"Good—I don't want you to break it," Oswald groaned.

That's all the consent Sylvia needed.

Her hand clamped over his mouth; and the hard smile she sent him was something Oswald would never forget. She sped up her tempo and forced every inch of her strap-on inside his ass. The sounds that attempted to escape past her hand were fucking maddening; they spurred her on!

His hands left the headboard (it started banging against the wall again) so he grabbed her shoulders, his nails raked down her back several times and Sylvia let out a heated moan; she was certain he drew blood, but she ignored it. The constant rubbing of the dildo against her clit, the small vibrations of her harness forced her into a third orgasm, but just as before, Sylvia powered through it.

She wanted him to cum as she fucked him, and Sylvia was determined.

Oswald was close—he panted, and screamed (yes, _screamed_ ), and every body part that could move was tensing up; his eyes closed, his eyebrows knitted together, his head was thrown back as his back arched; Sylvia's free hand moved to his cock, rubbing up and down his shaft for the final draw.

He came in her hand, and Sylvia smirked when he did. Oswald's left leg and right wrist twitched from the aftermath of a powerful orgasm; Sylvia stood wearily to her knees and weakly crawled out of her harness. She placed it on the surface of the bedside table, rubbing her inner thighs from where she had chafed from the constant movement; it was red, but otherwise, fine.

"How do you feel?" Sylvia asked.

Oswald's breathing was slowly returning to normal as he looked up at her, eyes glossed over and lips slowly twisting into a crooked smile.

"Better than ever."

"Aren't you glad I love pressing your buttons?" Sylvia boasted, smirking down at him.

"More than anything." Oswald sighed deeply. "I love you, Mama Pigeon."

"I love you too, Daddy Penguin." Sylvia returned. She glanced at her watch and frowned: "That whole thing took an hour-and-a-half."

"Time well spent," Oswald exhaled, smirking at her.

Sylvia gave him a look saying, "I know you're in a drug-like euphoria, babe, but we still have a _lot_ to accomplish before the wedding happens. So…" She groaned as she slid out of bed and balanced on her feet. "Please, get up, get dressed…do that thing with your make-up and hair, and I'll meet you on the veranda, yeah?"

"You are _really_ bossy inside the bedroom, you know that?" Oswald questioned as he sat up with an effort. "I feel like you need to be taken down a peg or two."

"Well, what we just did— _I_ pegged _you_." Sylvia said, winking at him. "So, let's not quibble, yeah? Now, _please_. Get up."

Sylvia approached him on his side of the bed, and kissed his cheek, then his bottom lip. He grabbed her jaw with one hand, and pulled her into him with the other, holding her hip. She stood between his legs, cocking her head to the side at him.

"Don't stop," Oswald said quietly.

"Don't stop what?"

"Looking at me like that."

"Looking at you like _what_?" Sylvia questioned curiously.

"Like I'm your King."

Sylvia grinned and she kissed him again, saying, "You've always been my King. With or without the crown. Now…seriously, _please_ get dressed. We have a lot to do."

Oswald nodded and he stood to his feet, collecting his suit from last night and placing it in the hamper before putting together the one for today. Sylvia watched him, her shoulder leaned against the doorway of the bathroom and she grinned.

"You realize that the next time we see each other today, we'll be saying 'I do'?" Sylvia said softly.

Oswald looked at her curiously, contemplated the very same thing, and smiled.

"I do realize it."

"Any second thoughts?"

"None. You?"

"Absolutely zero."

"That's comforting," Oswald stated.

Sylvia winked, saying, "Isn't it?" And she twirled before going into the bathroom and started the shower. Oswald considered getting ready in a different room, but this _was_ the last time he'd see her before the wedding. Oswald placed his clothes neatly on the bed, then stepped into the bathroom to shower with his fiancée one last time—because the next time they did this, they would be husband and wife.

**Chapter 11: Invitations and Expectations**

Sylvia arrived at the GCPD by nine o'clock in the morning. In her hand, she carried invitations (pastel yellow calligraphy on azure background), which were neatly placed in a solid white envelope; Gabe had done a beautiful job in helping her select the colors. While Oswald wasn't yet entitled to understand why she had chosen the colors, Sylvia had ensured him that he would understand when the time was right. The only people who knew what she was going to wear were herself and Victor.

At this point of the day, most of the police officers, Jim included, were just receiving their new cases, or following up on leads that would hopefully give them their next clue to solving the mystery.

Setting foot in the station, she realized that it had been a long time since she had seen Harvey Bullock (granted, he was no longer working for the GCPD) or Captain Essen; for that matter, Edward Nygma. She doubted most of them would accept her invitation, considering the groom's reputation and title, but Sylvia wanted to offer it either way; her feelings wouldn't be hurt…she really only expected for Jim to be there.

As she approached the Desk Sergeant's podium, the chair's occupant greeted her with a smile of his own.

"Well, long time, no see, Miss Gordon!"

"Good morning," Sylvia greeted. "Is Jim here?"

Just as the Sergeant began to speak, Captain Essen gathered everyone in the middle of the room, calling all bodies to attention. Sylvia turned to see that there was a giant slide projector; apparently, she'd caught the entire station in the middle of a debriefing.

Sylvia leaned towards the podium and whispered, "Should I leave?"

"Nah," the Sergeant said, smirking at her. "It's just an update."

"This looks like it's important, an only-need-to-know basis…"

"You're Jim's kid sister," the Sergeant chortled, grinning downwards at her. "Don't you already know everything anyway, one way or another?"

Sylvia let out a breathy laugh through her nose: "Point taken, Sarge."

"Just stay in the back," the Sergeant insisted, gesturing beside him. "It'll only be a minute."

"Thanks."

As instructed, Sylvia stepped back so she blended in with the other police officers who were currently not in uniform. Captain Essen turned on the projector and looked at everyone seriously. Beside her were familiar faces: her brother, of course, Dr. Thompkins (the new M.E.), Kristin Kringle (the little records custodian), and Ed Nygma stood just a few paces behind her; Sylvia smiled inwardly when she noticed the puppy dog eyes…he was still pining for her. Things didn't really change that much in the station.

"You all know what we're facing here," Captain (or rather _Commissioner_ ) Essen declared. "Forty-eight hours ago, six criminally insane inmates busted out of Arkham Asylum. Yesterday, four of those inmates broke into Yellen shipyard, kidnapped seven workers, and dropped them off the roof of the Gotham Gazette…"

Sylvia's eyes widened.

 _Okay…._ Maybe, a _lot_ of things had changed since she had last set foot in the station. Sylvia glanced at the Desk Sergeant with a second's hesitation, wondering if she really needed to be here for this—it looked like major important police business.

He exchanged her look with one of nonchalance, so Sylvia remained quiet, crossing her arms as she observed the crestfallen faces while dread occupied most of the officers' expressions.

In Gotham, one could only hope for twelve hours' worth of peace and tranquility. Gothamites were optimistic when they received a good night's sleep, even.

"As of now," Essen continued with slight annoyance, "we still don't have any leads on the person or persons behind the breakout—Jim Gordon's lead…Jim?"

Sylvia smiled, feeling a little bit of that ol' sister pride when Jim's back straightened upon hearing his name; he thanked for the segue in, dutifully took the remote offered by the Commissioner, and then went into it.

Like that old soldier habit, Jim's voice was stern and strong: "These are our targets."

He stepped forward and out of the way of the projector, revealing one escaped inmate after another, going over the name and the crime of which they had been accused, tried, and convicted.

"Jerome Valeska: eighteen-years-old, matricide." Jim said; the slide flickered. A young man of stated age with ginger roots smiled maniacally at the camera.

The slide changed to one of Arnold Dobkins, stated to be a schizophrenic, poisoner, and a rapist.

The projector flickered again to Aaron Helzinger: he killed his entire family with his bare hands.

Robert Greenwood: he killed and ate a dozen women.

For each new inmate that appeared, Jim held no emotion in his voice as he described the heinous crimes…that was until the screen flickered for the last time and revealed Barbara Kean. Sylvia noticed Jim's hesitation; that small fraction of a second; whether that was the awkwardness of having his ex-fiancée showcased in front of his current girlfriend, or perhaps he was still feeling guilty about allowing the Ogre to capture and brainwash her, Sylvia wasn't certain.

But the hesitation was there. Gazing at Lee and the sudden downward cast of her glance, Sylvia was certain that Lee might have been wondering the same thing. Regardless of his emotion or whatever he had felt for a split-second, it disappeared as he continued.

"Barbara Kean…killed her parents." Jim said finally.

The projector turned off, and he turned to face all of the police officers.

"We're going to work this in groups of four. I will hand out assignments through the day. Alvarez is my coordinating officer. Any questions?"

There were none.

"Let's get to work!"

Everyone broke the wave and started doing whatever they were doing prior to the brief. Sylvia glanced at the Desk Sergeant expectantly; the latter nodded her forward so Sylvia nodded back respectfully and then first headed for the forensic lab.

Ed was in the lab, doing what he did best: working on the puzzles. On his station were several poisons—or she assumed them to be—on several mini plates. She tapped two knuckles against the door; with large, circular goggles that made his eyes appear buggy, Ed peered up and smiled when he saw her.

"Sylvia!" Ed exclaimed.

"Hi, Ed. May I?"

"Oh, where are my manners," Ed chuckled. He pulled off his goggles and placed them on the table, smiling still. "Come in!"

Sylvia entered, and glanced at the curious plates: "Did I catch you at a busy time?"

"Not at all," said Ed, crossing his arms comfortably across his chest. "Timing couldn't have been better; you actually caught me on a break."

"Good to hear."

Ed glanced at the invitations in her hand.

"Oh," Sylvia gasped. "Right, the reason I'm here…" (She handed one to him.) "I'm getting married tonight, six o'clock at the Gotham Chapel."

He took it slowly, looking at it, then at her as though he was uncertain whether to hold it, drop it, or throw it out the window. Opening the envelope, Ed smiled at the color scheme.

"I like the calligraphy."

"Thank you. You could ask Kristen to come…as your plus-one."

"You're really trying to help me out, aren't you?" Ed said, placing the envelope on the table beside his goggles.

"Well, you're a nice man. I think it's time she spent time with a nice man, not the past few pricks she's been with…Speaking of which…I've not seen Dougherty for the last few days. Has he been reassigned?"

Ed allowed a small smile to reach his eyes before he said seriously, "No. He's not been reassigned."

"I suppose he's on vacation," Sylvia uttered, eyes flickering to the ceiling. "A man like him has so many places to be but very few places he's wanted. Don't you agree?"

Ed tilted his head curiously to the side: "I'd say that is a very odd but accurate way to put it."

Sylvia looked at him, narrowing her eyes slightly.

"You look different," She said, gesturing to his overall appearance.

Ed feigned understanding: "Whatever do you mean?"

Sylvia smirked.

"You know where Officer Dougherty is, don't you, Ed?"

"I can't say I do at the moment. I could say where he was in the future without a doubt. If I did know where he was right now, would I not tell you?"

"Wouldn't you?" Sylvia questioned. "You keep tabs on him and Kristen—your pining for her has never been more obvious, Edward."

He tentatively placed a small gelatin sample of one of the alleged poisons on a transparent microfilm and tasked it under the microscope lens for a closer look. He glanced at her secretively, sizing and focusing the lens, before he held his hand out to it.

"Would you like a look?" He asked gingerly.

Certain this was a segue to either a deeper meaning or a riddle, Sylvia cleared her throat, placed the invitations on the table neatly, and obliged; she slid between Ed and the table; Ed respectfully gave her room, side-stepping to her right, while also watching her with his arms crossed and repositioning his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose.

Sylvia peered into the scope, seeing a shamrock green sample. Other than that, it looked utterly harmless.

"Ed…"

"Yes?"

"What the fuck am I even looking at?" She questioned, glancing at him.

"This," said Ed, gesturing to the microscope and ergo the sample, "was used to poison our latest victim. Without going into the specifics, it's anti-freeze."

Sylvia chuckled, "I didn't think anyone used that anymore."

"It's a favorite. It's not the anti-freeze that kills you, but the compound in it."

"And you're going to tell me what that is, I imagine."

"Do you _want_ to know?"

"Sure, why not—knowledge is power."

She'd never seen him smile so big when she said his favorite words. Ed made a gesture for her to scooch over and she took a few steps to the side; he took a notepad from his front lab coat pocket and scribbled two words:

"'Ethylene Glycol'?" Sylvia read aloud. "What the hell is that?"

"I'm so happy you asked," He said slyly. "It's a tasteless, odorless, sweet-tasting liquid that is commonly found in anti-freeze; the sweet taste, you can presume, disguises it; it can be drunk accidentally, or—"

"—Or I can slip it into someone's caramel macchiato, and no one would be the wiser," Sylvia said coyly.

She was certain Ed would be shocked by her dark sense of humor as he so frequently was, but this time around, he surprised her with a certain coy grin of his own.

"And there's the beauty of it," He said, tapping the microscope. "Fascinating stuff, isn't it?"

"It truly is," said Sylvia with a gentle sigh, "but…" (he quirked an eyebrow at her segue) "I can't help but feel you're trying to make a point."

Ed held the invitation she'd previously given him and he placed in it his pocket.

"Officer Dougherty isn't on vacation, Miss Gordon—"

"'Sylvia'." She interrupted politely. "Please. We've spoken enough, I think we're past formalities. Aren't we, Ed?"

"Sure thing."

"And whatever it is you were about to say, I'm sure that you _don't_ want to tell **me** here."

Ed peered into the microscope for a third time before slowly looking at her; his expressions were blank, like he had been caught red-handed. And this made Sylvia smirk.

"You're in a forensics lab, in a police station. You're talking to a detective's sister—I'm certain I am the _last_ person you want to theorize about Dougherty's odd disappearance. But just so you're made aware: I'm not stupid."

"I can't imagine I know what you're talking about," He said enigmatically.

"Sure, you don't," Sylvia uttered knowingly. "But for what it's worth—I'm glad Officer Dougherty isn't with Kristen anymore—"

"—Who said they weren't?" Ed questioned suddenly.

"Kristen is a beautiful lady. A woman like that is never left alone, Ed. _You,_ of all people, should know that. And if a brute like Dougherty isn't pestering her, I can only surmise that either he decided to skip town and leave her alone, or you may have been involved…after all, I know how you feel about Kristen. And while I don't know much about the guy, Dougherty was a prick—and that's speaking politely."

Ed scrunched his face, like he might continue to feign ignorance. However, seeing as how Sylvia was cryptic as well with the knowledge that he was somehow involved in Dougherty's unusual absence, Ed allowed himself a small smile.

"You're a nice man." Sylvia commented, picking up her invitations. "Kristen deserves someone like you."

"That's nice of you to say. But how do you know that for sure? What if I'm just _pretending_ to be nice?"

"Are you?"

"Just kidding." Ed said playfully, nudging her in the shoulder. "Thank you for the invitation. I don't know if I will be able to go though, honestly. I have…" He gestured to the mini plates of gelatin-like unknown substances.

"It's a thought. If you can, great—if not, it's fine."

"Thank you," Ed said sincerely.

He held out his arms and Sylvia quickly hugged him, knowing Ed was awkward enough already. Sylvia left shortly after, visiting with Lee Thompkins who said she would happily come.

"Where are you having the reception?" Lee asked, smiling widely.

"It'll be at the mansion. But I don't know if you want to go to that, considering it'll be full of gangsters."

"Sounds fun!" Lee said gleefully.

Sylvia blinked: " _How_ are you dating my brother?"

Lee laughed aloud. The Medical Examiner leaned her backside against the steel table, glancing over the invitation, then looked at her again.

"Jim says he's going to walk you down the aisle," Lee said conversationally.

"Yep. This whole thing with Oswald has really put stress on our relationship. It's nice to know we can move forward after all this time."

"I bet it'll be a beautiful ceremony."

"Will you be able to attend?"

"I'll make it, one way or another," Lee promised.

Sylvia glanced behind her at the doorway and then stepped towards Lee in one single pace. The latter quirked an eyebrow at the sudden display of discretion, but when Sylvia spoke, it became evident as to why.

"I heard the inmates broke out of Arkham Asylum. Barbara was one of them?"

"Unfortunately," Lee sighed, glancing downward. "She called Jim and me the other night…"

_Well, that's why Barbara wanted a phone…_

"Did she threaten you?"

"Well, she wasn't calling to give me beauty tips," Lee said sarcastically; there was an air of humor in her voice, despite the worried edge.

"Well, you have Jim to protect you."

Lee glanced at Sylvia saying, "Does that help?"

Sylvia cocked her head to the side: "Does _what_ help what?"

"Does the thought of Jim being a detective make things easier?" Lee asked. She gesticulated to their current surroundings: "The constant epidemic of losing life and limb; the death threats…the random calls in the middle of the night?"

Sylvia smiled sadly. She placed a hand on Lee's shoulder: "No."

Lee snorted, "And here, I thought you were about to tell me that it does."

"I'm not one for dishonesty. And I don't bullshit. Never have, never will. Frankly…I think it takes a strong person to be with someone like Jim. As his sister, I can say that."

"I see how you two are related."

"Run that by me again?"

Lee pointed at Sylvia's head, "You have the same cynical sense of humor."

"Stubbornness runs in the family, sure, but the cynical humor has come with time. At one point, Jim and I were both very happy."

Lee gave her a gentle glance: "When was that?"

"It really depends on which sibling you ask. Jim's been kind of cynical ever since Dad passed away."

Lee looked at the redhead for a long moment and asked, "So who broke _your_ heart?"

Startled, she looked at Lee, who continued to watch her knowingly. Sylvia's lips tightened to a white line; she blinked a few times, her jaw clenched, and then she gave Lee a hard smile.

"I was a realist long before Jim or Dad ever were," Sylvia finally said quietly. Her fingernails dug into her palm, unknown to her. "I was a happy kid: an optimist if you can believe it. Not just one person or one event made me what I am."

"And _what_ are you?"

Lee's eyes searched Sylvia's.

"I'm a sinner," She uttered lowly. "Dr. Thompkins…"

"Please… _Lee._ "

"Fine. Lee, over time, I have had my heart broken several different times—not by criminals who steal, lie, cheat…criminals, enemies: they don't break hearts. The people who love you are the ones who can hurt you the easiest, and often times will hurt you the most."

Lee tilted her head to the side a little, and her eyebrows knitted together in an attempt to understand Sylvia's cryptic message. After a moment, Sylvia suddenly smiled and laughed apprehensively.

"Look at the two of us," She said shakily. "I'm just chatting away and surely; you still have work to accomplish before the day is out. Excuse me…" She started to walk away, but Lee snatched her wrist.

"Sylvia—"

She quickly turned. Lee immediately let go.

"It was Jim…" Lee realized aloud.

" _What_ was Jim?"

" _He_ broke your heart."

Sylvia didn't even try to smile. Instead, she admitted unhappily, "More times than I can count."

"He's trying," Lee spoke in his defense.

"If it's important enough, one makes time for it. I have, many times, sacrificed my time, my opportunities, and even my life to be there for him. So far," Sylvia said half-heartedly, "the only time he has done that is when he wants something from me. Now…hopefully, for your sake, he's a better boyfriend than he is a brother."

"He's going to your wedding. He doesn't care for the groom, I suppose, but he's clearly trying."

Sylvia allowed a small smile to tug the corner of her mouth but nothing more.

"You love him, don't you?" She said, although it wasn't much of a question.

Lee lifted her chin proudly, saying, "Yes. I do."

"Glad to hear it."

She approached Lee, who suppressed the urge to step back, and with good fortune too.

Sylvia hugged her around the shoulders, and then smiled at her.

"If you can make it to the wedding, splendid," She said with more pep in her voice. "If not, I will understand. I'm guessing Jim is out and about by now—would you remind him? I know how forgetful he can get when he starts hunting people down."

"Sure, I will." Lee promised, nodding earnestly.

"Thanks."

Sylvia smiled one last time before leaving the room.

Her last visit before the ceremony took place at one in the afternoon, in the charming residence of Harvey Bullock's current place of employment, the bar. As she strolled into the simple building, Harvey was speaking with his current girlfriend, Scotty. Hearing the familiar click of her heels, Harvey grinned widely upon seeing Sylvia approach the bar counter.

"Hey!" Harvey laughed. "There's my sister from another mother!"

He clapped her hard on the back as Sylvia managed, "You need to get your eyes checked, Bullock."

"Come bearing gifts of tidings?" Harvey teased. "What's that you got in your hand?"

"Invitations," She answered, handing one each to Harvey and Scotty.

"Ooh!" Scotty gushed. "Congratulations! Weddings are so beautiful. Harvey, we should—"

"Not a chance…" Harvey muttered. "Scotty, would you…?"

Sensing the build-up of tension, Scotty glanced between the two of them before she opted to stay out of this one. As she went around the back to occupy herself, Sylvia took a seat on the stool in front of the former cop and smiled expectantly.

"If you're going to try and talk me out of it…"

"I'm not doing that," said Harvey with a sigh of exasperation. "I'd be wasting my breath."

"Yes, you would be."

"And I suppose you got the 'big brother' talk about the birds and bees?"

"I'm aware of the birds and bees. I've been fucking Oz for the past year-and-a-half," Sylvia said smoothly.

Harvey cleared his throat, raising his eyebrows: "You have a way with words."

"I've been known to turn a phrase," She bragged, clicking her tongue, and winking at him.

"Always been a charming trait of yours."

"'Charming', is it?"

"Actually, if we're being honest—"

"—Aren't we ever—?"

"—Your brutal honesty really turns me on," Harvey teased.

"And your crude humor turns me off."

"Like a dimmer switch?"

"More like a breaker box," Sylvia commented, snapping her fingers. "Gone."

After a second of stone silence, they broke out in laughter.

"You're a real smart ass," said Harvey, wagging his finger at her. "How did Penguin manage to get a girl like you under his coat tails?"

"A drunk like you couldn't understand."

"No warning shots, huh?"

"En garde."

"That's what you say _before_ you attack."

"You know how to block." Sylvia pipped, interlacing her fingers on the table. "Besides, it's all in good fun. _How_ have you really been though? Still sober?"

"As a reformed alcoholic."

"Impressive. Do you miss the booze?"

"I like a drink from time to time, but I don't really need it."

"I could use a drink right now."

"Getting cold feet?" Harvey asked as he turned to gather a bottle of vodka, a tin of ice, and cranberry juice from the back; he returned with all three items and combined them in a glass, placing it in front of her.

"No," said Sylvia truthfully. "It's just the usual nerves. Everything's supposed to go 'perfect' and when things don't…It's a one-time thing, you know."

"Mm-hmm—tell that to the losers that renew their vows."

"It's a romantic gesture."

"A waste of time, if you ask me."

"I didn't."

"I know," said Harvey, winking at her. "So, where's this thing happening, anyway?" (He looked at the invitation.) "Wow, a _church_. And **you** of all people."

"Oswald's preference."

"You don't sound too thrilled."

"You know how I feel about churches. But his mother was a Christian and she raised him in that religion, so I figured, he's entitled to it."

"Does he know you're an atheist?" said Harvey sneakily.

"It's never come up."

"Sounds like a conversation to be had."

"I doubt it," said Sylvia, taking the glass and taking a few sips from it.

"Where's the reception? I might go to _that_."

"At the mansion."

"Falcone's old place?"

"Yep."

Harvey made a face of impressive agreement, but then he chortled, "Is Falcone invited?"

"I sent out the invitation," said Sylvia calmly. "He's more than happy to attend."

"Does Penguin know?"

"I doubt he'd come so there's no need to tell him."

"24 hours from getting hitched and you're already keeping secrets," Harvey snickered, leaning towards her. "You're already digging yourself a hole, Little Sister."

"You should know a thing or two about secrets, Harvey," Sylvia retorted, quirking an eyebrow at him. "Does Scotty know you're into—"

"Whoa! Let's keep that between us!" Harvey said quickly, gesturing madly.

"Well, if she ever gains 300 pounds, at least you'll still be irrevocably attracted, right?"

"You're such a bitch," Harvey said, shaking his head but smiling.

"And you're an asshole."

"Your brother's an ass-hat."

"You couldn't be more right about _that_." Sylvia muttered before taking a few more gulps of her drink.

"You finally convince him to come over to the dark side?" Harvey asked, crossing his arms on the counter; he leaned casually to the right, saying, "Never thought I'd see the day. Did you strong-arm him?"

"He said he'd attend."

"Come on, baby. I know you two. You guys got that brother-sister, hate-love relationship. What did you have to do so he'd come to the wedding?"

"The fact that _you_ even assume that…" She stopped herself before she continued.

It was Harvey's turn to frown.

"You and Jim are in a deeper pile of doo-doo than I realized."

Sylvia said nothing to that. Instead, she finished her glass and smiled at him, and handed him a twenty-dollar tip.

"He'll come," He said sincerely. "He's a putz, at best, but he wouldn't miss your wedding, Little Sister. Trust me. If I know Jim like I know him, he _will_ come."

"Thanks." Sylvia said, smiling at him. "Am I right in assuming you won't be attending?"

"I love you, sweet thing. But I can't _stand_ Penguin. I'll be there in spirit."

"Can't have you drinking all my booze at the reception anyway."

"Keep walking!" Harvey said, shooing her out with a hard laugh.

Sylvia left and headed back to the mansion.

It was time to get ready.

**Chapter 12: I Do and I Can't**

**Author's Note** : For reference, this is the song that plays while Sylvia walks down the aisle (and my inspiration): " _Canon in D_ " by Pachelbel.

Sylvia stood in the backroom of the church while the pianist played several classical pieces (mostly to entertain the guests that were slowly filing in). She peeked through the door, searching for Jim. The tightening of her jaw and her compulsion to peek through the cracked door made the people around her aware that she was more stressed now than ever before.

She stood in the shoulder less, pastel yellow cocktail dress which cut off just below the knee, the same dress she'd worn on her and Oswald's first date. Her hair was pulled into an up-do, ribbons of azure blue and diamond pins complemented her eyes which were shining bright cerulean; she wore very little make-up, aside from winged eyeliner and nude lipstick.

Her nerves jumbled like a jamboree inside her stomach, twisting her insides into knots. The giddiness of being the bride was strongly overwhelming, and while Sylvia could only grasp onto what would be the most important night of her life, her mind was plagued with doubt.

_What if Jim didn't come? What if he forgot—or worse…purposely didn't show?_

His damnable pride, his constant need for validation of his morale could prevent him from coming. Then Sylvia would be forced to walk down the aisle alone—not many brides were left with that option. So why did Sylvia feel like _she_ would be?

She heard an elderly woman protesting at the exit and Sylvia turned to see Gertrud making her way through the crowd: Victor was still maintaining security and after explaining that she was the groom's mother, Victor allowed her entry. Seeing Sylvia, Gertrud rushed forward, and suddenly wrapped her arms around the bride.

"You look so _beautiful_ ," She gushed, her eyes nearly reduced to slits as she smiled so widely. "Like a princess!"

"Thank you," Sylvia said, smiling back. She glanced through the door again, and Gertrud's eyebrows furrowed in concern.

"Expecting someone, dear?"

"Yes," Sylvia said quietly. She turned to Gertrud. "Just my brother…"

"I'm sure he'll be along," She comforted, gently rubbing Sylvia's shoulder—Sylvia could certainly see from whom Oswald got his comforting skills.

"I don't say this often enough," said Gertrud honestly, "But…"

"I'm not the wife-type? I remember you telling me that."

Gertrud let out a little nervous laugh, "No, no… _Liebchen_. I was wrong…. I realize that now."

"Aw," Sylvia cooed, placing a hand over her heart.

"I love you—you're the daughter I never thought I would have…"

"You're making me blush!"

Gertrud wrapped her arms around her again and Sylvia patted her head (she stood a few inches taller in heels). Gertrud quickly pulled away, a hand ghosting over her cheek just beneath her eye as she mumbled, "I best go—I think it's almost starting. And I want to speak with my little Cobblepot before things get moving!"

"Sure, take your time."

Gertrud smiled widely and then left through the door; Sylvia glanced through it.

Lee was here, wearing a burgundy, off the shoulder dress. But there was no sign of Jim.

" _It's almost time…"_

Sylvia turned her head to see Victor standing beside her. He was also looking through the cracked door, and he looked just as disappointed, if not more.

"He's not coming, is he?"

"Just give him a few more minutes," Sylvia said impatiently, glaring at him. "He might just be running a little late."

"He's not coming, Liv."

" _Lee_ is here. Why would she come without him?"

"You're doing it again."

"Doing _what_?"

"Waiting."

"He's my brother, Victor," Sylvia said defensively. "He said he would come to my wedding. He _said_ he would. He promised."

Victor sighed deeply.

"Just a few more minutes, please?" She begged, eyelashes fluttering. "He'll _be_ here."

Victor nodded curtly.

Still, Sylvia continued to stare at the crowd; searching through the wave of people that stood around the benches, talking to each other. Men who worked for her at _Lean on Vee_ 's had even shown, dressed sharp in tuxedos and suits. Gertrud, wearing a black and gold dress, was at the altar, standing with Gabe and Butch (both men were dressed in hilariously matching Armani suits), and she was talking with Oswald.

Sylvia had encouraged him to be himself—'don't play to the ceremony', she said. He did the thing with his hair and make-up, looking suave and sophisticated, as was his default. Per her request, he wore his black suit with a sapphire vest, and a gold-on-blue tie; he would match her perfectly.

To her reluctance, the pianist began playing the music on cue: her number, _Canon in D_. It was time to walk down the aisle.

Mr. Bell, her 45-year-old Head of Staff (as well as physical trainer), appeared by her side with a bouquet of lily-rose hybrids, promptly handing them to her. The irritation in his eyes was not reserved for her, however, Sylvia could see herself reflecting the same expression.

Jim had broken a promise to her. She was still surprised that she was shocked by the common occurrence. Perhaps she'd fooled herself into thinking that he would actually do her this one solid kindness. It wasn't as though she'd asked for much—in fact, she hadn't asked for _enough_.

"My dear," Mr. Bell uttered gently. "He's waiting for you."

Sylvia tore her eyes from Mr. Bell's, and glanced once more time through the cracked open door. She saw Oswald standing there: back straight, poised, and his eyes searching the aisle for her. She'd never seen him so happy, so eager.

Sylvia looked at Mr. Bell, who nodded encouragingly for her to go.

"You know," She muttered. "For years, I've always had Jim by my side. As kids…." She stopped talking, feeling a strange sensation catch her throat.

She had the most horrible urge to cry.

"It doesn't matter now, I guess. I just didn't think I would have to walk down the aisle alone on my own wedding day," Sylvia said cynically, hardening her smile. She glanced at Mr. Bell before she turned and started heading through the door.

However, a voice stopped her.

" _You're not."_

Sylvia turned to see Victor striding forward. He handed Mr. Bell the clipboard of all those who were allowed to pass the threshold; Mr. Bell took his meaning and nodded dutifully. Victor, dressed in his usual black attire, complete with fingerless gloves, turned to Sylvia and tilted his elbow towards her.

"You're having a laugh."

"I'm not."

Sylvia bit her bottom lip. One more look at the back door. Maybe, Jim would come last minute…but so far, no one came through them. Sylvia looked at Victor, who watched her expectantly.

Rolling her eyes, but cracking a smile, she took his arm with one hand and held her bouquet in the other.

Through the front double doors, they strolled down the aisle. Under her breath, Sylvia counted the seconds, each step that she took, each flower petal she stepped over as a means of dismantling the growing, nervous pang inside her chest, and the quick beating of her heart.

Oswald gave Victor a curious look (surprised that it wasn't Jim, perhaps) but wordlessly smiled as she and the professional hitman approached the altar.

When they stopped, Victor took her hand from his elbow, and kissed the back of it gingerly while bowing slightly to her.

Sylvia mouthed, "Thank you" and he gave her a quick smile before taking his seat between Butch and Gabe, both of whom glanced at him pointedly before returning their gaze to the front.

The minister wore robes of ebony, and a white collar; he stood plainly behind a podium, glancing between the bride and groom for only a few minutes as the pianist finished playing the musical number.

When the music faded, the minister began to speak from the Bible; Sylvia was deaf to the verses. Instead, she bit her lip, her mind working in overdrive due to Jim's unthinkable absence.

Oswald took her hands, pulling her gaze from the carpet to his.

"He didn't come," Sylvia muttered, glaring at him, but her anger wasn't directed towards Oswald.

Genuinely, he said, "I'm sorry, Pigeon."

"Doesn't matter. The day's not about him. It's about us."

He looked her up and down before asking, "Is that the same dress you wore for—"

"Yes," Sylvia said, her face lighting up with his instant realization. "You remembered."

"How could I forget?" Oswald replied, winking at her.

The minister finished the sermon, and placed his hands outwards, saying, "I'm told that the bride and groom have prepared their own vows. Is that right?"

"It's not left," Sylvia said smoothly, smirking when the minister gave her a weird look—but the audience tittered.

"Ladies first," the Minister insisted, waving to her.

Sylvia smiled widely and looked at Oswald.

"Oz," She said lightly. "You know me. I was raised by a lawyer for a father, and—well, you've seen what my brother is like." (A few more chuckles from the crowd.) "That being said, out of the two of us, you have always been the more hopeless romantic, and I usually accept your beautiful words with aloof, and—too often—sarcasm. So, to keep things consistent, I vow to always be by your side…or under you…or on top…"—A few people snickered at the last while Oswald blushed a shade of pink—"and I vow to still grab your butt even when you're old and wrinkly…"

A few more people tittered.

"All playfulness aside, I promise that I have loved you for all that you were, and I will continue to love you for all that you are, and for all that you will be."

Sylvia was certain that maybe he would cry, but Oswald pulled himself together. Yes, he was definitely the more emotional one between the two of them, but it was so adorable.

"Now, the Groom," said the Minister, gesturing to Oswald.

"I fell in love with you the way one falls asleep; slowly, and then all at once," Oswald said poignantly. "You saw me when I was invisible. And against all odds, you are still by my side—I have no idea as to why or how, but I have every intention of standing by yours. And when you can't look on the bright side, I will sit with you in the dark."

"Come Hell or High Water, babe."

"Do you, Sylvia Diana Gordon take Oswald Cobblepot as your lawfully wedded husband?" the Minister asked, straight to the point.

He looked really uncomfortable, standing less than a foot from Gotham's kingpin.

"I do." Sylvia vowed, making Oswald smile.

"And do you, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, take Sylvia?"

"I do."

"If there is anyone here that believes that these two people should not be wed, let them speak now or forever hold their peace…"

Sylvia glanced at the crowd…one last time.

She met eyes with Lee, who shook her head, appearing just as disappointed.

Just as the Minister was about to continue, someone stood up—someone that Sylvia didn't recognize—and they opened their mouth and said, "Well, I think—…"

In five seconds, Gabe, Butch, Victor, and ten other people stood simultaneously, taking their handguns out of their jackets or pant pockets, cocked, and aimed them at the nameless man before he even finished the sentence.

" _Nevermind_!" He squeaked, and he ran out of the church.

Sylvia and Oswald nodded at their men in appreciation before they both turned expectantly at the minister who appeared startled by the sudden reaction while those who had stood now sat back down.

"You were saying?" Victor encouraged from the crowd.

The minister stammered, "Oh yes…um…uh…"

"Oh, for the love of…" Victor grumbled. He stood up. " **Boss** "—Oswald looked at him— "kiss the _other_ boss!"

Sylvia laughed; Oswald didn't need to be told twice. He kissed her; She returned it, trying to hold in her laughter as Victor shouted, "FINALLY!"

The minister still babbled, looking everywhere but at the men who had pulled out their weapons and he decided to get the hell out of dodge before someone else decided to object to the marvelous wedding. There was clapping and some of the men and women working for Sylvia hollered and whooped while Oswald's men, the more professional actors, clapped: calm and collected as usual.

The wedding ended as soon as it had begun.

Sylvia stood outside the church, looking up at the night sky while she listened to the mindless chatter of those around her; after the people had finished congratulating her and Oswald, wishing them luck, that sort of thing, she had gone out for a bit of fresh air.

On behalf of the church, the service provided a few bottles of wine, and glasses of champagne were given to the guests; they all stood outside or in the archway, talking.

Sylvia stood on the driveway, her eyes cascading from the starry, cloudless sky to the pavement under her heels, deep in thought.

"They say to remember that 'the bride is always beautiful'. I didn't expect you to look any different," spoke a calm muse.

She turned to see Lee approaching her.

"Thank you."

"I know what you're thinking," Lee said arbitrarily; the glass of champagne in her hand tilted towards her indicatively.

" _Do_ you?" Sylvia challenged calmly. "Are you a Shrink?"

"Not officially. I had some trauma counseling, but it's not my area of expertise."

"Then how do you know what I am thinking?"

"Psychologists aren't mind-readers. Neither am I. But…I can tell you're thinking about something and there's only one person who I know of that could make someone look the way you do…"

Sylvia pursed her lips tightly together, closed her eyes for a second, and looked at Lee with forced calm. Lee stepped forward and placed a hand on her bare shoulder in an attempt to comfort; instead, Sylvia withdrew from her.

"So, let's address the elephant in the room…" Sylvia said coolly. "Where's Jim?"

"I don't know."

In a thinly veiled attempt at serenity, Sylvia asked, "Did he get wrapped up in a case?"

"I can't say," Lee stated, glancing at the church in thought. "We have a heavy caseload, sure…but he said he'd come."

"How did he sound when he said he would?"

"You think he lied?"

"You sound surprised."

"It would surprise _me_. He doesn't lie to me."

"I wonder what that feels like," Sylvia muttered; resentment flashed in her eyes.

"He sounded reluctant, sure. But he said he made a promise."

"Mm." Sylvia smiled sarcastically. "I told him I wouldn't mention anything about what happened with Ogden Barker. For that price, he said he would come to my wedding. You know what he did to get reinstated, don't you, Lee."

"I do."

"Tell me. What do you think about him now—after what he's done," Sylvia said coolly.

Lee shrugged saying, "I think he did what he thought was right…"

"That's what he'll say. That's how he'll describe it, 'for the greater good'…What he _really_ did was make a deal to get Loeb fired so that he could get what he wanted—and to do that, he killed a man. _That's_ what he really did."

Lee tilted her head to the side, and said defensively, "How come you're telling me something I already know?"

Sylvia's smile didn't reach her eyes. She took a step towards Lee, her eyes glowering.

"I've always been there for him. And I've always been put on the back burner until he needed something from me…This time around, I thought maybe that had changed."

"I'm sure he can explain himself."

"I'm sure I won't want to hear it."

"Sylvia…"

She stormed off before Lee could get another word out.

Oswald spoke with Victor in low tones; all the while, he watched Sylvia and the medical examiner from the GCPD speak. Watching Sylvia storm off, he excused himself from Victor and walked after her.

Sylvia stood in the now-empty church, watching the custodians sweep up the flower petals. She smiled politely at the workers, who regarded her presence before returning back to their work. She heard his familiar footsteps.

Sylvia turned to see Oswald, meeting her in the aisle. She quickly brought her hands to her face, looking away quickly, then she attempted a smile. Oswald didn't need to ask if she had been crying; it was evident by the redness of her eyes, and how much effort it took for her to crack a grin.

Oswald held his arms out to her, and she moved into them.

"It's okay, honey."

He rubbed the small of her back and the nape of her neck.

He whispered soft nothings, telling her that it would be all right.

Jim could break her heart, and Oswald would be there to put the pieces of her soul back together again. However, seeing her cry on their special day was something he just _refused_ to tolerate. When Sylvia regained her composure, Oswald recommended that they go to the reception, have a few glasses of wine, chat with their guests, and maybe that would turn things around for the better.

Sylvia agreed.

Back at the mansion, the newlyweds entertained their guests with drinks, music, the whole gala—Victor enjoyed a plate of lobster while Butch, Mr. Bell, and Gabe talked about sports or something to that affect. It wasn't until about ten o'clock at night when a car pulled up the driveway; stepping out was a haggard-looking James Gordon.

Oswald and Sylvia had been sharing a laugh with Butch and Tiffany when Jim approached them. He was breathless, but otherwise, appeared quite calm.

Seeing him, Sylvia's expressions immediately changed from joyful to contemptuous. She said to Oswald, "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

Oswald followed her gaze to that of Jim, and nodded in understanding, saying softly, "Fine, Pigeon…"

She started walking away. Just as she did, Jim approached. But in that instant, Victor, Butch, Gabe, and Mr. Bell stepped forward, blocking his way while she continued to walk as though she hadn't seen him.

"Get out of my way, Zsasz," Jim ordered.

"She doesn't want to see you today, Jim. You might want to let this one go."

"I have to talk to her. For the last time—get out of my way."

Oswald cleared his throat, and Victor glanced at him curiously; he sent him a meaningful look, and Victor nodded, keeping his stance. Glowering at the men, Jim turned and stalked towards Oswald.

"Tell your men to move aside."

"My men are doing exactly as they've been instructed," Oswald said with a tight smile.

Jim said through gritted teeth, "You think you can marry my sister and keep her away from me?"

"Oh, heaven's no," He said incredulously. "I wouldn't keep her from seeing you—regardless if you _are_ the reason why she's crying on her wedding night. But I digress—"

Jim lunged forward, grabbing Oswald by the collar, and nearly picked him up. Normally, he would have been unnerved by his aggression, but protecting Sylvia had overridden any anxiety Jim might have caused.

"I _can_ ," Oswald continued harshly, "however, make sure that _you_ stay away from her."

"What the hell does that mean!"

"It means"—Jim whirled around as Victor spoke—"Penguin isn't ordering us to keep you from her. _She_ is."

Jim threw Oswald away from him; the latter stumbled back but caught his balance after a moment. Jim started towards the mansion, shouting Sylvia's name. However, despite his aggressive actions, no matter how he tried to step towards the mansion, someone always blocked his way. Oswald watched Jim's useless effort, smirking inwardly.

"SYLVIA!" Jim bellowed. He glared at him: "What have you done—"

Oswald sighed in exasperation, "'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned', and Jim, Sylvia is _furious_ with you. So, if I were in your unfortunate position, I'd say—"

Jim made a point to pull back his fist and punch Oswald, but another hand caught it. Jim turned suddenly to see Sylvia standing behind him, holding his wrist; her eyes protruding and nostrils flaring.

"Lay a hand on my husband, and I will put you in a _goddamn_ coma," Sylvia threatened.

Jim lowered his fist, still surprised that she had made her way all the way over to him so quickly.

Her cold expression didn't change as she demanded, "Why the hell are you here?"

"Vee…I know you're angry, and I'm sorry I wasn't there, but—"

"You're _sorry_?" Sylvia retorted furiously.

And the rest of the chatter died as the guests turned to look at them.

"I asked you for **one** goddamn thing, Jim. 'Walk me down the aisle'—you didn't have to say anything or stay for the whole ceremony—but you left me _alone_!"

Jim frowned, saying, "You know why I didn't go."

"No—I _don't_." Sylvia snapped, glaring at him. "You **said** you would come, you _promised_. You broke that promise **to me**. But I shouldn't be so surprised, should I?"

"You need to understand where I'm coming from," Jim said desperately. "Look at him, he's a criminal."

"I'm standing _right_ here." Oswald said sardonically.

"—And I'm—" Jim began, but Sylvia cut him off.

"It doesn't _matter_ what he is— _you were supposed to come for **me**_!"

"You can't marry someone that—"

"—Who are you to tell me who I can and can't marry—"

Sylvia and Jim were arguing, their voices steadily growing louder and louder in order to speak over the other sibling. Oswald stared at them, certain that while he did want to intervene on her behalf, it was best to let them fight it out.

Jim said coldly, "My job is to protect you from criminals, I can't do that if you're married to—"

"I don't _need_ your protection! I don't _need_ you to be a cop! I need you to be my brother but—"

"You won't even let me talk!"

"Because you're being stupid!" Sylvia retorted, throwing her hands up in the air. "You were supposed to be here, Jim! Here _for me_!"

"I got caught up at work—"

"Color me shocked," Sylvia snarled.

"You know what my job is like!"

" _Lee_ is here," Sylvia said tearfully, pointing at the medical examiner. "She works with you. How come she was here but you weren't! If you didn't want to be here, James, all you had to do was tell me 'no, I won't come'. You could have saved me the embarrassment, the humiliation! I asked you for _one_ thing, Jim. _One fucking thing_ —"

"—And I told you my conditions. I told you what would have to happen—"

"OUR RELATIONSHIP IS NOT BASED ON DEALS!" Sylvia screamed.

Jim blinked.

She was breathing heavily; her face was nearly red. Her eyes were on fire, and Jim took a step back when her teeth bared at him.

"Vee—"

"Shut up! Let me refresh your memory," Sylvia said hatefully. " _I_ was the one who took your bullshit. _I_ was the one that stuck around even through your shittiest moods—even when Dad died. While you were fucking falling apart, I was there for you."

"I—

" _Shut up,_ Jim! **Shut up**!" Sylvia snapped. "You don't think I know what you sacrifice every day? You don't think I know what being a police officer means for you? If you don't think I do, then fuck you! You know? I sacrifice a lot that you know nothing about! Do you think about that—no, you don't. All you ever think about is yourself!

"When all that shit happened with Sionis and your cop friends were gone, it was _I_ who went with you to arrest Sionis: **Me.** You didn't have to ask me to come; you didn't have to! I was with you when no one else was, and when I needed you more than anything or ever in the world, you _abandoned_ me—you didn't even bother to _call._ You just didn't show!"

Jim stared at her, not because of her words, but because she was crying as she spoke. Tears ran down her cheeks, unstoppable. Her eyes were blazed with hatred, and her voice was shrill, and it shook something awful. He took a step towards her, arms stretched out.

"Sylvia, I need you to listen to me."

"No! I'm done listening to you! You come to me with reasons why you can't keep your promise, but they're just **excuses** to me. You're a great cop, but you're a shitty brother. You want to compare yourself to criminals—to them," (she gestured to her employees) "to _me_ " (she pointed to herself) "and say you're the better person, but you're _not_. The truth is that you will put your career, your reputation, and these goddamn Arkham Asylum lunatics before your own sister."

"I'm after them so I can protect you and the rest of the city," Jim said with an attempt of calm: "Do you see _that_?"

"They would be out and about today, tomorrow, or a month from now," Sylvia stated harshly. "You don't know when you will catch them; they could evade you for the next six months—you don't fucking know—but you had an opportunity to share a once-in-a-lifetime event with me but you pussied out because you don't like the groom."

Victor made a face and whispered to Oswald, "Ouch."

Oswald sent him a filthy look, but Victor shrugged. Jim glanced at the duo before returning his gaze at Sylvia, who crossed her arms.

"Vee," Jim began, stepping towards her.

"You want to protect me from _these_ people," Sylvia said, gesturing to Butch, Gabe, Oswald, and Victor. "But _you're_ the one who keeps hurting me. Please…for once. **Protect** me… _please leave_."

Jim's lips parted, out of pained shock.

"Vee…"

"I can't…" Sylvia whispered painfully. "You broke my heart…I just can't do this anymore."

She looked at Victor: "Please show Detective Gordon—"

"—Sylvia—!"

"—to his car. And make sure he leaves."

Sylvia turned to go back inside. Victor, Gabe, Mr. Bell, and Butch stepped forward, blocking Jim, ready to fight. Jim glared at them and at Oswald, who lifted his chin defiantly. Jim snarled; defeated, he strode down the driveway, slammed the car door shut, and then sped off.

Certain that Jim would not come back, Mr. Bell was on his way to comfort Sylvia, but Oswald took his arm, stopping him: "Let her be. She's upset. Not even _I_ will attempt to talk to her when she's like this."

Mr. Bell nodded, and he crossed his arms in disappointment.

"She was so certain Gordon would come," said Mr. Bell quietly, looking at Oswald, who returned the glance.

"Sometimes the person you'd take a bullet for ends up being the one behind the gun," Oswald said softly, looking down the driveway where Jim had disappeared. "Where there is anger, there's always pain underneath."

Mr. Bell glanced back at the mansion.

"She's in a great deal of pain, then," said Mr. Bell softly.

Oswald looked in the same direction and nodded in agreement.

It wasn't until midnight when the guests all started leaving; even then, Sylvia never came back out. When after the mansion was cleaned up, the only evidence of a party having taken place was the alcohol-filled staff. Oswald strolled through hallways, bidding them good night.

In front of the bedroom, he stood. The door was just ajar, the room was dark, and there was no way he would see Sylvia through the little space; if he wanted to speak to her, he'd have to come to her. Exhaling deeply and preparing himself for whatever storm was brewing inside the redhead, Oswald puffed out his chest and slowly opened the door; an eerie creek met his ears as the hinges resisted.

The light from the hall spilled into the room. Sylvia was under the blankets, covered up to her neck. Her eyes were closed, and he could see the swelling and deflation of the blanket as her chest slowly rose and fell in her sleep.

Oswald felt a roiling heat in his belly, not unlike what he had felt when Jim was standing in front of him, demanding to see Sylvia when she pleaded to be left alone. Sylvia provoked a protective urge in him; and while he knew she was strong and self-reliant, capable of protecting herself in her own right, Oswald couldn't deny the resentment he held towards Jim for making his treasure feel this way.

Maybe Jim hadn't intentionally meant to do this to her, but the fact remained: he was the reason Sylvia had cried herself to sleep on what should have been the happiest day of her life.

Oswald approached the side of the bed on which she lied the closest. Her hair was a tangled mess, the after math of her likely having run her hands through it, trying to force herself out of this depressing state. By the light that allowed to pour into the room, Oswald could see her cheeks were stained with tears, her eyeliner smeared.

Seeing her this way broke his heart.

Oswald left the bedside only long enough to change out of his suit and into black top and bottom pajamas. Delicately, he pulled the covers down the bed, joining her; a small smile crept to the corner of his mouth when he noticed that she wore a lavender-colored night slip (She looked good in any variation of the purple hue.).

When he joined her, the bed shifted with his weight. He placed his hands on her shoulders to pull her close to him.

Half-sleep, she groaned, "Leave me alone, Jim" after which she attempted to push him away.

"It's me, Pigeon." Oswald said gently.

Sylvia heard the pet name and immediately, she stopped pushing. Her body became pliant against his own, curving into his so she could snuggle closer. Oswald shifted in his position, so they both lied down; he, on his side; she, on her back.

He kissed her on the cheek; to reassure that whilst in his company, she needn't speak. Between them, there was always a comfortable silence, during which they just enjoyed one another's company.

And that's what they did on their wedding night. Sometimes, silence was all that was needed. And for tonight, Oswald knew Sylvia needed it.

**Chapter 13: Yin and Yang**

Oswald finished dressing early in the morning, wearing his usual suit. As he straightened his tie and buttoned his cuff links, he peered through the bay window to see Sylvia and Mr. Bell strolling out onto the cement-floor veranda; the simplicity of the lawn-and-garden had been Falcone's idea to make the home more serene. However, for the purpose of the ex-CIA agent and his student, Mr. Bell, and Sylvia (respectively) had pushed aside all the upholstery for preference of a battle-ready arena.

It wasn't spacious, the 'arena' itself; Mr. Bell had drawn chalk lines for boundaries, a small box that he and Sylvia would spar inside; one toe out of line literally would mean a beat-down. Oswald had watched Sylvia train every morning at the crack of dawn (normally 5:30 in the AM) and after a few sessions, he had to take his absence.

It amazed him just how much physical pain Sylvia could take—granted, she'd improved with impressive feat; she was a lot more agile, more physically strong: her arms and legs had become tanned and toned, and she radiated a sort of confidence that only body-builders seemed to possess.

It had been a few days since the wedding, and Sylvia had been training with Mr. Bell longer each morning. It didn't surprise Oswald; after all, she had a lot of anger, and sometimes, getting punched in the face or suffering a nearly broken arm seemed to ease the emotional pain that Sylvia couldn't be rid of.

Oswald leaned against the window, observing Sylvia and Mr. Bell circling the opposite slowly. They spoke in normal voices, their volumes not within range of his own ears. Mr. Bell was dressed in sweats and a black tank-top—showing off his large biceps and veiny strong forearms; on his head, he wore a beanie. And while the cook could appear like he was advertising a typical _Rocky_ training movie, Mr. Bell didn't need any look to show just what the CIA had trained him to do.

He specialized in close hand-to-hand combat. As he stepped towards Sylvia who appeared three times smaller than his own stocky, muscular size, Oswald flinched when Mr. Bell grappled her body into his; in five seconds, Sylvia was down on her knees, spitting curses that made even Mr. Bell ponder his mental innocence. After Sylvia showed signs of pain, Mr. Bell released her; Sylvia lied on her back, appearing defeated.

They exchanged a few words—most likely, Mr. Bell was offering some tomes of wisdom. Sylvia wasn't as motivated as she normally would be; much like Oswald, when mirrored with defeat, Sylvia would normally become more determined to strike down her opponent at any given turn.

Oswald wasn't the only one who could see that Jim's error of not having come to the wedding had hurt Sylvia in more ways than one. Jim had emotionally damaged Sylvia's heart, and the pain of that night—no matter how many times or how hard Mr. Bell punched her—would not go away.

In the next ten minutes, Sylvia and Mr. Bell sparred: their physical training ranged from push-ups, sit-ups, three-hour hikes around Gotham, and an hour-long session of either boxing or wrestling. Mr. Bell preferred boxing as it fitted his size and gave his larger than thou fist a run for the money, while Sylvia (being smaller, sprier, and flexible) preferred wrestling.

Oswald's smile widened as he watched Sylvia leap onto a chair, swing her body onto Mr. Bell's, and with her thighs tightened around the cook's neck, the latter grasped and clawed at any body part so as to loosen her grip. He slowly inched down onto his knees before he started slapping his hand on the concrete—their signal for 'Uncle!' Sylvia released him on command, and she slowly rose to her feet, breathing hard, but otherwise, a small smile creased her lips.

It was a smile that Oswald hadn't seen for a few days. He clamored down the walkways, greeting staff with a nonchalance, and strolled down to the veranda, cane-in-hand. The umbrella still remained in his closet, but the cane seemed to suit him more—both in preference and in exquisite taste. The penguin mount that served as a handle was just the cherry on top of the icing.

Mr. Bell was getting to his feet by help of Sylvia when Oswald met them on the veranda, smirking at the two of them as Mr. Bell rubbed his neck.

"You're getting better," said Mr. Bell, noting her agility.

Sylvia smiled at him, then looked at Oswald who greeted her with a little peck on the cheek.

"How are you feeling?" He asked.

"Better," said Sylvia.

"I'd hope so," Mr. Bell grunted, taking a seat on the concrete. "You damn near tore my neck off."

Sylvia chuckled.

"I'm happy to see you in such high spirits," Oswald noted, gesturing apologetically to Mr. Bell, adding, "Even it is at his expense."

Mr. Bell chortled, glancing at Oswald, "Don't worry about me, old boy. I've got this thing down to a science."

"This ' _thing'_ ," Sylvia sniggered, "just bested _you_ at your own game."

"I _let_ you win."

"Sure, you did," said Sylvia sarcastically, rolling her eyes. To prove a point, she asked, "Is that a bruise?"

Rubbing his neck, Mr. Bell replied, "If your strength means my injuries, I'd say you have been doing well in our training and it's time to take it up a level."

"Meaning?" Oswald asked, glancing between the two.

"Meaning," Mr. Bell clarified as he stood to his feet, "That Sylvia might want to consider seeking out a more professional trainer if she wants to use her body as the ultimate weapon."

"I'm not finding another trainer. Besides, if it's all the same to you, I prefer this to be an in-house ordeal. I don't want anyone else knowing that I'm learning how to spar."

"Can't imagine you would."

Sylvia glanced at him, eyes flashing dangerously: "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I take it you and your brother used to do a lot of this when you were younger," said Mr. Bell, gesturing to the patio floor where she'd ultimately taken him down.

"We did," said Sylvia, lowering her arms to her sides and glancing mischievously at Oswald, saying, "I normally won."

"He probably let you win," said Mr. Bell.

"I doubt it. She grabbed a water bottle from the pack that was normally seated underneath the grill and took a swig, saying, "Jim is competitive; he hates losing."

"It must be a family trait," Mr. Bell stated.

He ignored Sylvia's counter-glance at he took a bottle of water as well, and sat in a chair, turning to Oswald who was watching the two of them with an air of amusement.

"What does your day look like?" Sylvia asked Oswald, wiping the sweat from her forehead.

"Busy."

"So, a normal day," She giggled, earning her a small smile from him.

"What does yours look like?"

Mr. Bell smiled between them and excused himself so that he could freshen up. Really, it was just a way to get out of being a third wheel. Sylvia and Oswald nodded respectfully to him as he let himself out of the way, and they grinned at one another knowingly.

Sylvia took his arm, and they strolled through the garden, taking light of the fact that the sun was actually shining today (an odd occurrence owing to the fact that it usually hid behind dark grey clouds).

"I know you've been melancholy the past few days."

"Don't."

Oswald stopped walking, and she turned to him.

"I know what you're about to say. I won't pretend that Jim didn't upset me. Hell, _everyone_ at the reception could see that. But I handled it differently than I should have—I let him ruin what should have been the happiest day of our lives, and it didn't end the way I wanted it to…you know?"

Oswald took her hands in his, and she looked at him, confused.

"If placed in your shoes, Pidge, I'd have likely reacted the same way," He said reassuringly. "But that's not what I was going to address."

"Oh?"

Oswald said with a child's excitement, "I made dinner reservations."

"Straight to the point. No foreplay with you at all."

"I'm terrible at segues."

"You're lucky you're sexy then."

Oswald chuckled, gathering her sense of humor.

"Where's the dinner taking place?" asked Sylvia as they continued their stroll.

"That's a surprise."

"What should I wear?"

"Also, a surprise," said Oswald, winking at her.

"You're full of surprises."

"Only the good kind. If you want the bad…"

"If 'bad' means 'perverted', I'm all ears."

She turned so she walked backwards as he strolled forward. The smile on her face brightened when he grinned back at her.

"Maybe we should have dinner here," Sylvia offered.

"Dining in instead of out?"

"Well, if I am being honest. I've a different idea for what I want for dinner."

Oswald cocked his head to the side curiously. But his silent question was answered with an equally nonverbal gesture: Sylvia kissed him, slow and tender at first, then with his reciprocation, it deepened and became passionate.

"We still have to consummate the marriage," Sylvia whispered against his lips; she lowered her hand between them.

Oswald startled as she grabbed him, but he smiled at her with equal mischief: "I'll cancel the reservations."

"Yes, you will." She said, wrinkling her nose playfully at him. "I have to go by the club and make sure everything is ship-shape…I have a few dance rehearsals, and then—"

"What are you rehearsing for?"

"The Children's Hospital is having a gala tonight."

"I didn't realize you were playing a part," Oswald returned, startled.

"Where do you think I've been running off to for the past few days?" Sylvia teased.

Oswald shrugged and said with a little embarrassment, "Perhaps I _have_ been a little distracted…"

"The Arkham escapees are putting dents in your empire. I can understand why you would be…"

Oswald ignored the fact and asked, "Why are you having a dance rehearsal at a Children's charity?"

Sylvia ran a hand through her hair dramatically, saying, "Apparently, my talent for footwork has become _renowned_. Dr. Thompkins—you know, the M.E. for the GCPD? —"(Oswald nodded) "She's organizing the benefit, and she wanted a dance to introduce some magician. I've planned a few magical stunts," (Sylvia smirked) " _fire_ is a great part of it."

"I didn't realize you dabbled in illusions," Oswald said with a smirk.

Sylvia said coyly, "That I do. See, my sweet prince, there are things you still don't know about me."

"You're very much an enigma."

Sylvia wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. In turn, he settled his hands on her hips; she nuzzled his neck, and he heard her purr.

"Should I expect you to be coming home late, then?" Oswald asked as she withdrew from him once more, immediately feeling empty when she did and was reluctant to feel her body heat leave him.

"No later than usual. The gala isn't happening until tonight…and that's if people don't cancel. What, with the Arkham lunatics running around, I'm surprised there are still people having fun. Kudos to them, you know?"

Sylvia pulled her hair up into a black scrunchie, a few strands of hair fell down her forehead in abandon. Since they'd married, Oswald was certain that they had spent less time around each other than the opposite; something was _always_ getting in the way of their intimacy—if it wasn't Oswald's running the empire, it was Sylvia's extracurricular activities as an entertainer.

Granted, Oswald had the pleasure of being present for her performances as a professional dancer and singer, and he was more than happy to see that she received just applause for her hours of practice.

More people had flocked to _Lean on Vee_ 's just to watch her perform on stage, her club earning more money than when he or Fish Mooney ran the dive. Her dances involved agile, quick movements, and a great deal of sexual appeal; the woman could gyrate like a Columbian belly dancer from Aphrodite's inner circle.

Oswald had watched Sylvia's performances initially with full-blown jealousy (his eyes and fingers would twitch when he saw the way people looked at her); but whenever he was present for her rehearsals or actual real-time performances, Oswald had noticed that Sylvia's attention was always solely focused on him; in a way, it was like her dances and songs were completely directed towards him; he was her muse…and that was more than anything anyone else could say…that didn't keep him from feeling possessive and protective of her when a few men would wolf-whistle from the crowd and eye-fuck her.

Oswald wasn't surprised to see Sylvia's footwork receiving such publicity; at any moment, her performances and talented choreography would open up impressive business opportunities—and he was more than happy to hold that door open for her. Lee's suggestion for her to perform at a gala where many talent scouts would be in attendance was a double-door!

Sylvia looked at Oswald when she'd finished pulling her hair in a messy bun, noticing that his gaze seemed glossy, in a trance. She approached him, placing her hand on his shoulder; the simplest touch shook him out of his reverie and he suddenly smiled at her.

"You don't mind if I go to the gala, right? I know you had plans for us tonight, but…"

"When were you going to tell me, by chance?" Oswald said calmly.

"It never came up. It's been a rodeo since the wedding, and time got away from me…" She paused and said reproachfully, "Are you mad at me?"

"Of course not. Why would I be?"

"Well, you made all these reservations…" Sylvia said, gesturing to the mansion indicatively. "And I just dropped this bomb shell on you…"

Oswald let out a breathy laugh, taking her hands in his. He rubbed his thumb over the single-diamond silver band on her left hand, the symbol of their unity, and said softly, "They're just dinner reservations, Pigeon. They can be cancelled any time—new ones can be made."

"Are you sure?" Sylvia asked, licking her bottom lip. "I can tell Lee that—"

"Don't," Oswald said quickly.

Sylvia raised her eyebrows high, surprised by his sudden reaction. Oswald recomposed himself and placed her hands against his heart, and she looked at him with a little smile.

"I know what this means to you," Oswald said softly.

"You know I never thought I could be a dancer or a singer until I met you?" Sylvia uttered lovingly. "I tried for the high school dance team for the longest time—qualified, but the dance coach didn't care for trouble makers…and after Jim went into the Army—with both him and Dad trying to convince me to go into law or police work, I guess I just lost interest in it all…"

Oswald felt his breath hitch and his stomach churn with little butterflies as Sylvia looked at him in the way he'd never want to forget: like he was her godsend, her hero—her eyes were wide like the moon, and the smile she only reserved for him alone made its way to her lips. Sylvia kissed him, softly…gently. The kiss, as gentle as it was, left him breathless.

"I forgot my dream until I met you, until you made me realize just what I could do with it."

Oswald smirked: "And to think you were terrified of going on stage."

"Hey, that was different," Sylvia returned coyly. "It was _really_ impromptu and—you know—singing a love song with a stranger was entirely…awkward."

Oswald chuckled at the way her face became bright pink. It was not often that he could make her blush, but when he managed to do it, he reveled in every second. Sylvia's smile widened when he caressed the sides of her face, pulling her back into another kiss. This one was not so tender; it was meaningful, and insistent. She returned it eagerly and pressed her body against his.

"Wait…" Oswald mumbled.

Sylvia looked at him reprovingly.

"If we keep this up, I doubt I'll be able to stop," He cautioned.

"No one is asking you to stop." Her voice was libidinous.

God, that low seductive timbre of hers always could flip a switch in him.

"You'll be late to your rehearsal," Oswald said, trying to ignore the fact that Sylvia was trailing kisses from the corner of his mouth, along his jaw, and to his earlobe where she nibbled gently.

At this point, he was hoping she wouldn't mind skipping the rehearsal. He cared about her obligation to Lee, and the whole dance ensemble, right? Or at least, he was making an effort to care…

To his satisfaction, Sylvia hissed, "Fuck the rehearsal…"

Oswald and Sylvia reconvened in the bedroom with Sylvia walking and undressing as quickly as her fingers could pull down her sweats. Oswald was in disrepair, struggling more as he had more layers of clothes to work with. He grumbled about his expensive tastes being something more of a bother than what was needed.

"Lie on the bed," Sylvia suggested as she turned to lock the door.

As he did, he admired her figure: her curves, the slightest movements of her arms that made the soft muscles along her toned back flex; the light dip of her back. She turned and walked towards him.

Oswald snickered when she pushed him on his back; his eyes looking up at her; the light in the bedroom, although dim, made Sylvia appear to be an angel…but only he knew just how much of an angel she was not.

Her fingers shuffled through the buttons without tearing off any of them, and yet, she was able to get them undone faster than he would have!

"Your hands work fast," Oswald noted plainly, trying to pretend that he wasn't ready to turn her on her back and fuck her to oblivion.

"Only when I want something," Sylvia responded airily.

Where the buttons met, they now separated; his coat, vest, and button-up shirt parting one by one as she undressed him. He helped her by shrugging them off.

She didn't stop as she unbuckled his belt and snapped the zipper downward; he felt her wet mouth engulf the head of his cock.

"Oh, hell…" Oswald breathed, closing his eyes to the sensation.

He could feel her lips twisting into a smile as she continued massaging his cock with her tongue, taking him in inch by inch while she tugged his pants the rest of the way down his legs. Oswald moaned when he felt the vibrations of her snicker move through his shaft.

Without missing a beat, Sylvia sat on her knees, still sucking. Her tongue rolled around him; her head bobbed up and down, taking him deeper into her throat.

Oswald inhaled sharply when he felt her teeth ever so lightly graze his member; then her tongue swirled around him. Already, he could feel himself becoming undone; her mouth and tongue were enough to put him over the edge, but when he felt one of her hands begin to massage his balls, he shuddered with both satisfaction and desperation.

"If you keep doing that, I'm not going to last long, Pidge," Oswald groaned.

She let him go with a _pop_ , her tongue flicking over the slit of his cock before she said, "Wanna bet?"

Oswald glanced down to see _that_ look, the mischief in those cerulean eyes; she _knew_ what she did to him. Shakily, he said, "I'll lose that bet."

Sylvia let out an evil little chuckle; at this angle, Oswald's legs hung off the bed; she straightened, standing between them, and then climbed on; her knees lied parallel to his stomach; his cock stood at attention and at the angle she sat, the pink flesh of her pussy was flush against it.

She slowly grazed her fingernails down his sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Oswald shuddered.

She ghosted her nails down his sides again and he stifled a needy moan, shutting his eyes tightly and gritting his teeth; with the combination of her teasing touch and that of her wet pussy slowly rubbing against his hard cock, Oswald was certain she was trying to kill him.

"You like that?" Her words came out strained with mischief and eagerness. "Say you like it."

Preoccupied with the sensation, he couldn't answer her.

"Answer me, or I will stop."

Oswald's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates before he said quickly, "I like it—please don't…"

She slid one hand up his chest and collar bone, stopping at his neck. Entirely out of instinct, he involuntarily craned his head back, granting her access to his throat; Sylvia's hand wrapped around it: her thumb against one carotid while her index and middle finger pushed against the other.

"I like it when you say 'please'."

Her other hand baited his cock; holding him in her palm, her thumb slid over the slit of the head.

Softly, she uttered, "Small…concentric circles…"

Oswald didn't know what she meant until her thumb circled the head, coating him in his pre-cum. He had to bite his tongue so as to think of the pain instead of coming just from that alone. His face, neck, and chest were flushed pink with lust; but he was satisfied to see that she appeared the same; her pupils were blown, to the point where he searched them for the blue irises that still remained.

She wiggled her butt, and the head of his cock peeped inside her wet entrance for just a few seconds before she lifted her hips and evaded him; Oswald's head craned back again; his fingers clutched the bed sheets.

"Say 'please' again."

"Pigeon…"

" _Say_ it…" Sylvia said softly, but her tone had a commanding edge that Oswald couldn't ignore.

"Please…" Oswald moaned.

Her eyes flashed dangerously as she spoke lowly, saying once more: " _Again_."

Oswald repeated the word, like a mantra. The slow, perpetual grind of her pussy against his cock made him keen, and he soon found that there would be nothing he would deny her just to be inside of her. His imagination ran wild—how wet she would be, how tight her walls would clench and grasp onto him…how her legs would quiver by the time they were finished…

" _Sylvia_ ," Oswald exhaled sharply.

"Mmmm?"

He held out his hands to take her hips, to gain some leverage, but she caught them and pinned them beside his head. She lowered her body onto his: her breasts on his chest, her hard, taut nipples teasing his own flesh.

_Fuck…_

"Don't tease," Oswald said desperately, "Please…I can't take it…"

"Oh, sorry, sweetheart. I forgot _I_ 'm the one that likes being teased. Is someone not enjoying themselves?" Sylvia questioned; she made tsk-ing sounds, rolling her hips so his cockhead kissed the entrance of her dripping cunt. Furtively, she said, "You know, I hear marriage is all about compromise—is that what you hear too, Pet?"

Oswald nodded furiously—just agreeing with her, hoping that she would relent.

He watched her intently as Sylvia released his wrist so she could slide two of her fingers inside her pussy, and then gingerly pulled them out. She held them up in front of his face, and smirked, saying, "This is all because of you, babe."

She smiled when she held them in front of his lips and he quickly took them into his mouth, sucking on her fingers. His tongue swirled around them; Sylvia bit her bottom lip and just how eager he appeared; his hungry eyes matching her own.

"You want to fuck me, don't you?" Sylvia said knowingly.

"Yes."

"What was that?"

"Yes."

"Sorry," Sylvia snickered. "You're going to have to speak a little louder for me…"

" _Yes_ , for **fuck's** sake!" Oswald growled.

Sylvia was surprised when he threw her hand off his own, grabbed her hips in a vice-like grip, and shoved his cock inside of her all the way, balls deep. She let out a startled moan, then it lengthened to that of a high-pitched mewl. Oswald took advantage of her shock, turning them so Sylvia grinned up at him from her back.

"I forget how strong you are," Sylvia gasped.

Oswald crashed his mouth against hers, breathing in and swallowing all of her glorious sounds as he thrusted deep inside of her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, giving him all the access that he desired, and he took full priority in taking what was his.

He dug his fingers into her hips, holding her down as he fucked her.

"Osw— _mm_!" Sylvia's gasp was stifled by his hand, clamped firmly over her mouth.

Every part of her was dominated by him—not an ounce of her flesh remained untouched as Oswald greedily ran his free hand up and down her body. He relished in the way her hips would lift when he pulled out of her, the strength of her walls tightening to keep him inside when he thrusted in, the wet sounds of flesh slapping against flesh. And how her lips parted in lost focus, unable to keep up with his demanding kisses.

When he bit her shoulder, Sylvia lost herself to the desire, engulfed by the only thing she could coherently fixate on—and that was reaching the peak of her climax.

She chased the dragon, bucking her hips to meet his, pleading for him to make her come—or at least, that's what he assumed she was trying to scream through his palm. He tasted the sweat of her neck, the ceiling lamp of the bedroom shedding light on the soaking wet bodies that were their own.

Her vanilla perfume, his cologne, and the smell of sex filled the room; their panting, her muffled screams, and his moans and grunts were the only sounds eliciting from the bedroom.

When her legs quivered, her toes curled, and Sylvia's screams had become nothing more than unvoiced gasps, she'd orgasmed too many times to count; her pussy tightened around his swollen, aching member; Sylvia clawed her fingernails down his back as she reached another level, and her helpless squeaks for his own resolution made a powerful feeling come over him.

"Come inside me, baby, please…" Sylvia panted.

Her fingers raked through his hair, and when that didn't sway him, she pulled him down to her, so her lips captured his in desperate persuasion; he felt her hands on his back, nails digging.

"Say it again."

" _Please_ ," She urged.

After a few more thrusts, he couldn't last another second of hearing her pleas, Oswald let go of his restraint and in that moment, he allowed his own desire to completely take him; with Sylvia grabbing his hair and forcing his mouth onto hers, Oswald moaned as he came inside of her.

Within the minutes that followed, Oswald lied on top of her, smiling as she bore no resistance to him.

Sylvia liked his weight on top of her; she felt secure, and safe underneath. His head lied in the crook of her shoulder as he nuzzled his nose against her neck; she let out a content sigh. Wrapped in each other's arms, they were silent, gathering their breath. After a moment, she spoke.

"Do you want to go to the gala with me? There's going to be a magician."

Oswald lifted his head, looking at her: "You know I don't like magicians."

"Mm, you don't like riddles either. There won't be any riddles if that's any consolation."

"I still have work to do."

"I take it you're declining my invitation?"

"Yes."

"I figured you would. If you didn't have to work, would you come with me, even if there were a _thousand_ magicians standing in your way?"

"A thousand magicians in one room would be unlikely," said Oswald logically, "but nothing and no one would stand in my way of being with you."

"Except for work."

"Pigeon…"

"I'm kidding," She giggled. "You're such a hopeless romantic, you know that, don't you?"

"More than anyone."

"I like it though."

"I'm glad you do."

"And I like _you_."

Oswald chuckled, "I like you too—this would be really awkward if we didn't like each other."

"Only _mildly_ awkward. People who hate each other sometimes fuck each other."

"I've _never_ heard of that."

"You see it in movies."

"I can't see the benefit of doing such a thing."

Sylvia shrugged again, saying, "People can have chemistry even if they hate each other. Sex, in itself, is primarily physical: did you know that a human's eyes dilate when they see someone they love, but _also_ when they see someone they hate?"

"I _didn't_ know that."

"It's a scientifically proven fact."

"Is it."

"Yep. Speaking of which…what if _I_ was a magician? Would you still love me?"

"I would love you, no matter what you were."

"Your love knows no boundaries," Sylvia teased.

"Your humor knows none either."

Sylvia snickered, "Now you're just teasing."

"Guilty."

Sylvia sat up, stretching her arms; she glanced at her shoulder where he'd bit her and pouted, "I'm going to have to find some major concealer to hide that for the show."

"A small price to pay. You weren't complaining."

Sylvia grinned, unabashed: "Touché, Husband."

She and Oswald dressed again for the day. Gabe had offered to drive her to the event. After the fact, they were running late for the rehearsal, but Sylvia didn't seem too hurried.

Oswald leaned into the passenger side, as she sat in the seat; Sylvia looked at him curiously.

She was dressed in all black—dress, heels, and all; she wore black lipstick and red eyeshadow with winged eyeliner; the dance routine prepared at the gala was supposed to be filled with fire, and, above all, sporty moves and flashing lights…not unlike a rave. This was a festivity that adults would remember. Mr. Bell accompanied Oswald, more or less to bid Sylvia good luck. He was out of his sweats and wearing his usual black-on-white tuxedo.

"Knock 'em dead," Mr. Bell said, bowing his head to her. He handed her a coke. "For good luck, milady."

"Aw, really…you shouldn't have!"

Gabe leaned in from the driver's side and handed her a four-leaf clover. Oswald sent the two men a curious glance before rolling his eyes, and kissing Sylvia on the cheek.

"Enjoy your meeting with the Families," Sylvia said playfully. "I'm sure it will be boring as hell."

"Without you there, I assure you it will be," Oswald reassured. He glanced at Gabe, saying, "Don't let her out of sight, do you hear me?"

"I got it, Boss," Gabe said, nodding vigorously, holding up his right hand. "I vow to—"

"Don't be so dramatic, G." Sylvia lightly reprimanded, although she was smiling.

She looked at Oswald, playfully scrunching her nose at him.

"He's got it," Sylvia said, smirking. "You have _nothing_ to worry about, babe. It's a fucking charity event—what's the worst that can happen?"

Oswald forced himself _not_ to think about the many dreadful scenarios and he stepped back so Gabe could start the car. As they drove out of the driveway, Oswald watched after them; Sylvia's hand popped out of the window, waving good-bye.

" _It seems she is in a better mood…"_

Oswald turned his attention to Mr. Bell.

"It seems that way," He agreed. After the car had vanished down the road, he said "Do you _really_ want her to seek out another trainer?"

"Of course not," said Mr. Bell, smiling politely. "I take great pleasure in mentoring Lady Cobblepot; she's a taste of fire, that one. But I can only teach her so much. I've not been in that line of business for so long, and times have changed since I was an agent—bigger enemies, bigger guns."

"You don't think your services suffice?" Oswald presumed, placing two hands atop the handle of his cane.

"Like I said," said Mr. Bell lowly, "I can only teach her so much. She has great potential—she can do so much more, and she can't improve where my latency is due. She needs a younger teacher; she deserves to have one who can keep up with her."

"You'd be surprised."

"Pardon, sir?"

Oswald said with a meaningful glance, "The difference between what she _deserves_ and what **_she_** _wants_ are two separate ideals, Mr. Bell. You believe she deserves a greater teacher, but in her mind, _you_ are good enough."

"That's kind of her to think so then… _flattering_ , even."

"It is, isn't it?"

There was a five-second silence between them.

Sensing a deeper meaning, he said lightly, "Should I be so bold…to assume that you feel the same way about _her_?"

Startled by the observation, Oswald gave him a once-over and played ignorant: "The same way about what?"

"You believe she deserves a better suitor than you…you've probably even openly discussed that with her, but in her eyes, _you_ are enough."

Oswald pressed his lips together like he'd been caught in his own epiphany, but he readjusted, saying calmly, "You know…for a cook, you are far too perceptive."

"I hear that too often, sir. For what it's worth, I can't think of anyone more suited to the lady's personality than yourself."

"Meaning?"

"She's personable, down-to-earth, gets along with the staff and even befriends the people in your employ," observed Mr. Bell, "and that's the side most people get to see. But you and I are _very_ aware that she can be too impetuous and overzealous during times that call for patience and aloofness." (He placed a fatherly hand on Oswald's shoulder; a gesture that made Oswald look at him curiously, but not standoffishly.) "You can be the same way, with all due respect, but…when she's furious, you are patient; and in times when you are inconsolable, _she_ is logical. I think that sort of companionship, that sort of _partnership_ , is hard to find just about anywhere."

Mr. Bell smiled but Oswald couldn't put a finger on the reason why he did. Mr. Bell was no common cook—in zeal and physicality. The intuition he possessed was far more calculating and intelligent than for what people gave him credit.

"Yin and Yang," Mr. Bell said finally as he started to go back to the mansion. "Perfect for a relationship, even better for a marriage."

Oswald followed him inside. If he was certain of it as he sure he was, Oswald could have guessed that Mr. Bell just offered him firsthand marriage advice. He didn't argue the point—Mr. Bell had been around the world, and probably had his own share of marital mishaps along the way.

"If she wants me to continue to be her mentor," said Mr. Bell, business-like, "I'll be more than happy to. A woman like that is hardly one I dare say 'no' to, either way. Now, if you would please excuse me…" He made a curt bow to Oswald. "I must check the roast; I'm assuming she informed you on tonight's plans?"

"Yes. She preferred to dine in," Oswald recalled.

"Oh, good. She _did_ tell you. I was hoping I didn't drop the ball on that one—she loves her surprises, doesn't she?"

"Only good ones," Oswald told him, smiling.

"Well, with the good, comes the bad." Mr. Bell said conversationally. "For example: I once came into a surprise party for my birthday and a young woman—bless her heart—came up behind me and shouted 'Happy Birthday!' and I was _so_ startled, I grabbed her neck and snapped it in three places." (Oswald stared at him.) "Now _that_ was a hard story to explain to the police."

Mr. Bell laughed at the memory, reminiscing the good old times and he casually strolled into the kitchen to continue preparing for tonight's plans. Oswald watched him and made a mental note _not_ to come up from behind Mr. Bell at any given moment.

**Chapter 14: Making Up**

Sylvia sat in the passenger seat, while Gabe drove her to the Children's Charity gala, hosted by Dr. Leslie Thompkins; as promised, she was on her way to the gala to perform the dance which would introduce the magician (whomever this person was). Lee liked performance art; magicians, circuses—you name it. Sylvia expected that there would be talent scouts in the audience—it was a rich man's world, and if one were optimistic, Sylvia's dream of becoming a world-famous performer was just out of reach.

Her dance team was comprised of a number of individuals: some she had picked from the street, a few worked at her club (Tiffany Rubberdale was one of them), and others had heard she was incorporating fire in the dance so the pyro-fanatics (namely, Henry) had volunteered to be a part of it, thus creating her ambitious team of acrobatics and adamant dancers. Most of them did it because Sylvia was the lead; others, like Henry, found their own underlying ambitions (He wanted to impress Tiffany.).

Sylvia had missed the rehearsal but had no doubt about the dance going off without a hitch. She had led them through the steps countless times, and the rehearsals had gone on for hours, almost every day at the club.

Her thoughts relied solely on getting to the actual event.

Sensing that Sylvia was in a travesty of nervous thoughts, Gabe silently leaned forward in the driver's seat and flicked on the radio. Some static swarmed the first few channels he turned to (making Sylvia smile a little) and he finally stopped on the first channel that didn't have the grainy voices. He hoped to take her mind off whatever was bugging her; even if it meant listening to the news.

"More on the devastating tragedy at the Gotham City Police Department…."

Sylvia felt a sudden panic. She turned up the volume.

The news reporter stated, "7 police officers, including our very own newly promoted Commissioner Sarah Essen died two days ago when Jerome Valeska, the ringleader of the Maniax, invaded Gotham's own police department…"

"Gabe, turn around." Sylvia ordered.

"You're going to be late for the dance…"

Sylvia's eyed flashed dangerously.

"Alright, alright," He said quickly, and he changed lanes and made a U-turn to head towards the station. "I'm turning around, I'm turning around…"

"I'm going to try calling Jim…" Sylvia muttered quickly. She pulled out her phone, and saw that he hadn't even called or messaged her for the past two days—everything had been so hectic, she didn't think to listen to the news or the radio or anything…

Sylvia hit the number 2 speed dial and waited. And waited.

"Fuck, he's not answering. Drive faster, Gabe."

"I'm driving, I'm driving…." He said, nodding vigorously. "There's a stop light, do you want me—"

"My brother could be in trouble, or worse dead—will you just _drive for **fuck's**_ sake…"

Gabe gunned the gas and the car shot past two patrol cars without stopping. Sylvia continued to dial Jim's phone when he didn't answer.

"He's not answering! Why isn't he answering?"

"It's been two days since this thing happened," Gabe offered cautiously. "Maybe's he's busy with other things."

"Or he's fucking dead and no one bothered to tell me because they know I was pissed off at him for not coming to my own fucking wedding!"

"I can't tell if you're mad at them for not calling, if you're mad at Gordon for not coming, or if you're mad at yourself for feeling mad about this…"

"Just _drive_ , Gabriel."

"Yes, ma'am." He placated her, nodding obediently; he didn't say anything else, lest he make her angrier.

He was afraid of Penguin when he was pissed off, but Sylvia was the sleeping dragon he did not dare poke in the eye.

Sylvia left a voicemail when the tenth phone call didn't go through; her voice was shaking, and on edge: "James, this is your sister. Pick up your fucking phone and _call me back_!"

The car came to a strikingly sharp halt in front of the GCPD.

"Stay here," Sylvia ordered.

Gabe nodded, once more obedient. He silently protested that it would be in his interest out of personal health and preservation to go inside with her in any case one of the Maniax were still inside, but at the same time: he didn't want to upset her any further.

Sylvia, wearing her performing clothes and in her radiant glory, stormed inside the GCPD; anger was a great mask to the fear that had been roiling inside her belly, making her arms and legs feel like jelly.

She saw the caution tape over Commissioner Essen's door.

The event happened two days ago, but even though the bodies had been taken to the morgue, and the trashed station had been cleaned up, the atmosphere was very different. This was the House—the sanctuary of cops, and it had been violated.

Someone had just came in and made it a war zone…if that wasn't a violation of privacy…

"JIM!" Sylvia shouted. "Jim!"

Alvarez hurriedly came to her side, and he looked her up and down, a little taken aback by her attire, but assured her: "Sylvia, it's okay—"

"I heard what happened on the radio," Sylvia said quickly. "Where's Jim? Is he—?"

God, she couldn't even think to begin to say the word! When Alvarez only answered her with a confused expression, she threw him away from her.

"Jim Gordon! Where is he?" Sylvia addressed the entire station.

One of the officers began to speak, but Harvey Bullock approached her from behind, dressed in his detective attire; even as a cop, he didn't care for shaving. Sylvia stared at him, surprised to see him in this station of all places.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing—you're freaking out, what the hell is wrong?"

"I heard what happened on the radio," Sylvia said, gesturing to the little appliance sitting on Alvarez' desk. At this point, she was close to tears and her voice shook: "The Maniax, and Valeska, and-and Sarah…"

"He's okay," Harvey said, holding his hands out to gracefully touch her shoulders. "Here, sit. Sit. Jim is _fine_."

"H-he's alive?"

"Alive and pissed off, but alive." Harvey reassured.

The door to the GCPD's entrance opened and Jim was on the phone, talking to whomever about business items. When he saw his sister on the balcony, crying, and speaking with Harvey who was sitting in front of her, Jim said to the other line on the phone, "I'll call you back" as he jogged up the stairs to see her.

She looked up at him, first in shock. Then she stood so suddenly, Jim was certain she was going to give him a right hook; instead, she wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

Harvey raised his eyebrows, having never seen such affection come from her…at least not with her own brother. There was a moment of awkwardness where Jim didn't know what to do either, but he patted her head consolably.

"I thought you were dead…!" Sylvia whispered; she stepped back away from him, giving him his personal space.

Jim smiled: "Oh! Well, I'm a survivor, Vee. You know that."

"I didn't know what to think! When I heard what happened, that was the first thing I thought of."

"How sweet," Harvey said, relaxing his face into his palm. "This is one of those special moments on television where the audience would go 'awwwww', and then we just melt like butter."

"You're ruining that moment—no one likes it when you break the fourth wall," Sylvia pointed out.

"Nah—I figure the only thing that would pull you two back to each other is death. It has a way of erasing past mistakes."

"That's poetic. Are you drunk?" Sylvia questioned.

Harvey held up an aluminum flask: "Nope, working on it."

Jim and Sylvia rolled their eyes. Jim looked at her.

"I'm truly sorry for not having come to your wedding," Jim said, addressing the elephant in the room. "I should have."

"You _should_ have." Sylvia reaffirmed, her temper rising. However, after a moment, she said quietly, "But in the light of everything that could have happened, I'm not so angry anymore. You could have died, and I never want you to die with a fight being our last conversation."

"What if you died first?" Harvey asked, pointing at Sylvia. "You're talking like _Jim_ will be the one to die first between you two."

"He's a cop that works in Gotham. He'll die before me."

"Your life isn't exactly sunshine and rainbows either, pussycat. Speaking of which…why are you dressed like that?"

Sylvia crossed her arms saying, "I'm performing at the Children's Charity gala. There's going to be a magician—"

"—Lee told me that," Jim chimed in.

"And my team is introducing him."

"Dance team, yay," Harvey said in false cheer. "Are they going to do some flips, and cheers?"

"Don't tease. You pretend you don't want to go, but you want to see me dance the twirl more than anyone, don't you?"

"Guilty. You look good in that, by the way." He eyeballed her dress. "Black is _definitely_ your color."

"Harvey!" Jim chastised.

"Yeah, I might be drunk now," Harvey admitted, smirking at him. "But she _does_ look good, Jim. Jim…Jim! Come on!" (Jim turned and started walking away). "You _do_ look good, Liv."

"Thanks, Harvey." Sylvia said, smiling at him.

"Jim!" Harvey shouted, walking after her brother. "Come on! You _know_ your sister's hot!"

Sylvia chuckled and quickly walked out of the station, hurried now. She and Gabe would arrive _just_ in time for the dance to be introduced, and that's if they ran all the red lights. Sylvia clambered into the vehicle and closed the door.

"How's your brother?"

"We made up. He's alive."

"I figured he was."

"Well, you can 'figure' all you want, but I had to know for certain."

"Do you want me to run the red lights on the way to the thing as well?"

"Well, we might be a few minutes late if we don't…"

Gabe took that as a 'yes' and ran all the red lights. Thankfully, most of the traffic was down to a minimum so not many cars had to come to a screeching halt and give them the middle finger.

**Chapter 15: Magic Tricks**

Author's Note: Song featured in this song is called _Grace for Sale,_ a song featured in the movie, 'Devil's Carnival'. I suggest listening to it, it's pretty awesome 😊.

Sylvia arrived at the Children's Charity gala in record time; she stepped out of the car, and thanked Gabe for his help. She let him go, telling him to come back within the next hour. By that time, the dance would be over, and Lee would be introducing the magician.

"You don't want to stay for that?" Gabe asked, starting the car once more.

Sylvia smiled, saying, "It really depends on how the night goes. I'll call you."

"Sounds good," said Gabe, and he drove off.

Sylvia smoothed down her dress and started walking towards the building. Standing in five-inch heels was hard enough as it is, although she had to commend herself for such an effort. While she'd primarily worn dresses to receive the longing looks Oswald sent her when he saw her in them, Sylvia was grateful that she'd worn heels so frequently; otherwise, walking up the rain-soaked stairs in stilettos might have proven to be a daunting task.

Entering the building was a sight all on its own. Sylvia reckoned the annual charity would have been less packed, but as she sifted through the entrance, she was a bit taken aback to see so many faces. Most of them, she didn't recognize; and why on earth would she? It wasn't as though she spent her time kissing rich people's asses all day. However, a few she _did_ recognize: one of them was the Deputy Mayor, doing his best to act in the Aubrey James' stead. Another was…

"Bruce Wayne!" Sylvia drawled, smirking widely when she recognized that young man's face.

And he was accompanied by his butler, Alfred Pennyworth. The last time she saw the two of them was back in the hospital; standing on his feet, Alfred looked a great deal better than when she last saw him, lying in a hospital bed. Bruce Wayne was dressed as handsome as ever; for a child, he certainly cleaned up well!

Hearing his name, Bruce turned and smiled politely at Sylvia, recognizing her.

"Miss Gordon." He recalled.

It wasn't hard to tell that Bruce was here against his will. For a billionaire, he certainly didn't fit the reputation of a spoiled brat; instead, he was unusually modest, polite, and looked more than ever like he would have wanted to be in his mansion instead of schmoozing the public. Despite his underwhelming sense of presence, Bruce was ready to shake her hand.

He did so, and Sylvia smirked at the two of them.

"Do you come here often?" Sylvia teased.

"My parents were patrons of the charity," Bruce explained, glancing at Alfred to verify the information; Alfred nodded in agreement, so he added, "So, I'm here too…now…I guess."

"It's nice to get out from time to time," Alfred offered, smiling kindly at Sylvia. "I apologize in advance, but may I ask why…" He gestured to her attire.

"I'm starting a new trend," Sylvia joked, smiling broadly. "Actually, in all seriousness, I'm performing on stage. My team and I are introducing the magician."

"Ah yes, I do hear there will be a magician. Bruce loves magicians, don't you, Bruce?"

"You know I don't." Bruce reminded calmly, glaring at him passively.

"Do you like fire tricks?" Sylvia asked, paying no mind to the awkward silent argument between them.

"I can take it or leave it, to be honest, Miss Gordon."

Sylvia didn't care to tell the billionaire or his butler that she was technically no longer 'Miss Gordon', but rather 'Mrs. Cobblepot'. It didn't seem important at this given time; instead, she let it go, and smiled when Alfred glanced at his ward a little irritably. Bruce Wayne was as honest as they come: a breath of fresh air, really.

"Fire is a part of the dance performance," said Sylvia, gesturing to the stage. "You see those torches right there, at the front?"

Bruce and Alfred turned to glance in the direction where she was pointing; five metal spouts were hidden discreetly from view along the front of the stage.

"Fire will be coming out of those spigots. Towards the end of the song, I'll be set on fire. It's actually quite fun."

"That sounds dangerous," Alfred offered, raising his eyebrows.

"What's life without a little danger," Sylvia returned with a wink, earning a small smile from Bruce.

"Do you know how to do the 'robot'? I know a few moves myself, you know."

"Not necessarily. I lean a little more on the side of 'Pussycat Dolls' than Mr. Roboto."

"Well then. I guess that _will_ be quite a show then, won't it?"

Sylvia sniggered at the shade of pink that flushed all over Alfred's face before she held out her hand to shake both of theirs, stating, "As fun as this conversation is, I'm afraid I have to cut it short. I still have to brief my dance peeps before we go out on stage; there's quite an audience here, and some of them have a little stage fright."

"Of course, of course, don't let us keep you!" Alfred exclaimed, and he stepped aside to allow her to pass, watching after her. "She's married now, you know."

Bruce looked at him curiously saying, "I know. It was in the newspaper."

"Then why on Earth did you insist on calling her 'Miss Gordon'?"

"Why were _you_ flirting with her?"

"I was _not—"_

"Your face turned the shade of a watermelon, Alfred," Bruce said, smirking at him. "Especially when she mentioned she dances like one of the Pussycat dolls."

"Well, I…Now, see here…"

Bruce rolled his eyes, smirking at him before walking forward with his butler following him, stammering his excuses.

"Oh my god, I am _so_ nervous," Tiffany mumbled for the thirtieth time.

Dressed similar like Sylvia, only wearing leggings underneath her dress, Tiffany was walking back and forth in a nervous pace, wringing her black-gloved hands as she glanced behind the heavy velvet curtain at the audience.

"There are so many of them, Henry," She whispered, glancing at the young man wearing a black shirt and pants as well as a dark purple cumber-bun. "I don't even know _why_ I told Sylvia I would do this with her…I can't even talk in the microphone to tell people their car has been towed, never the less be in a dance routine—I know I'm going to trip and fall, or worse!"

"Really? What is worse than tripping over your own feet?" Henry offered, glancing down at Tiffany's heels. "You look good, by the way."

Tiffany gave him a look that described her insecurity perfectly. She _did_ look good in her black flowing dress, and her make-up made her look like a dark goddess, but despite what people told her and Henry's opinion which seemed to matter little at the moment, Tiffany was convinced that not only would she mess up the entire performance but she also looked like a toad.

"God, where is Sylvia?" Tiffany hissed. "I need to tell her I'm quitting. I cann _ot_ do this. I was so stupid to think I could—"

" _You're not going anywhere."_

Tiffany turned, glancing at Sylvia who strode up the five steps of the stairway; she wasn't even halfway up the last before Tiffany jumped forward and wrapped her sweaty arms around Sylvia's middle.

"Oh my god, I thought you were lost on the way…" Tiffany began.

Sylvia inhaled sharply as Tiffany's hug tightened like a python grip around her middle.

"Let me guess," She winced painfully. "You had a bunny, but not anymore."

Tiffany let her go, glaring at her incredulously.

"This isn't the time for your dark jokes!" She said sharply. "I'm _freaking_ out over here! You weren't at rehearsal—I damn near had a heart attack. I thought you died in a car crash or-or-or—"

Sylvia suddenly slapped her across the face. Henry stepped forward angrily but one of the other male dancing counterparts snatched his arm really quick before the young man could do anything that he would later regret.

Abashed by the assault, Tiffany held her face where Sylvia had slapped her, and reproachfully looked at her boss.

"First things first," Sylvia said calmly, but her voice was firm. "You need to calm the fuck down. Second: I get that you're a little upset and you're nervous, but please mind the way you talk to me, okay? I've had a _long_ day, so please keep your tone polite, alright? Third: I'm sorry for slapping you, but you really do need to calm down and that was the only way I would have been able to make that happen. Clear?"

Tiffany mumbled, "Crystal."

"Now, I get it. Everyone is nervous. I completely understand. But now is not the time to let our nerves get the best of us. Okay?"

Tiffany nodded. Henry lowered his fists to his side and glared at her.

"I can't dance worth shit," Henry stated.

"You've danced wonderfully back at the club," Sylvia praised. "You just need to remember where your feet are. Everyone here is not a professional dancer—I think we've all discovered that. Good lord, if I could count the number of sprained wrists and ankles, I wouldn't have near enough hands to do so"—The performers around her tittered in appreciation for the humor—"We've all been under a great deal of pressure, and I appreciate all the hard work you've put into this for this dance performance—and all the hard work you've done for me."

Josh, one of the performers Sylvia had taken off the street, raised his hand. He was about 18 years old, skinny like a twig, but strong as an ox. His role was picking up Tiffany (a role Henry envied greatly), and he was excellent in his footwork. Seeing his hand raised, Sylvia looked at him expectantly.

"Can we go out and eat after this?" Josh asked.

Food. That was all this kid thought about. Granted, he'd been on the street for some time. His eyes were a little dead panned, but that was from all the grisly things he'd experienced in his time living on the streets; his nose was abnormally large, and his hands too; otherwise, he was a nice-looking kid who just loved to eat.

"Sure. We'll all get something to eat after this, how about that?"

Everyone cheered.

"So, when Dr. Thompkins introduces us, we are going out there; remember your steps, your twirls, and _you_ keep up with the music, not the other way around." Sylvia briefed. "On the last chorus, the fire spigots are going off and I will be set on fire…" (Tiffany and Henry glanced uneasily at each other) "But, please remember, keep doing as you're doing because I will be in no danger; this dress is fire-retardant."

"I sure hope someone is going to video tape this," Henry muttered.

"When the last note ends," Sylvia continued, "someone cover me with their cape—Tiffany, I'll leave that up to you. When I'm completely covered, the floor beneath me will drop open and it will give the illusion that I 'disappeared'. Thus, introducing the magician: everyone got it?"

Josh raised his hand again.

"Yes?" Sylvia called on him.

"Are you _sure_ your dress is fire-retardant? What if someone switched it for—"

"She's not stupid enough to fall for the bait-and-switch deal," Henry said coldly. "Stop worrying about her, Josh. Goddamn…"

Sensing the hostility between Henry and Josh, Sylvia cleared her throat, pulling the attention from the latter to herself, saying, "I'll be fine, everyone. We've practiced this at rehearsal a hundred times."

"At least!" joked one of the performers.

The others tittered at the joke, calming them down. From behind the curtain, Sylvia and her team could hear Dr. Lee Thompkins' voice coming from the other side. She was introducing them as their team name 'Fire Bugs', considering their dance routine involved fire (real fire, not fake).

"I'm so nervous," Tiffany muttered.

"Don't be," Henry reassured. "You've got this."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, nauseated by the sweetness. If she listened to anymore of this sweetness, she would get diabetes.

 _Grace for Sale_ (played on a booming speaker) roared inside the room and that was the cue for all of Sylvia's dancers to head on stage. The dance itself consisted of sharp movements, complicated footwork; Sylvia burst through the heavy curtain, serving as the center of the six other performers. While the lyrics boomed…

_A sheep has left the fold_

_Hoof beats go trotting, trotting_

_Up to heaven, bold_

_At the gates, knocking knocking_

_Sheep in wolfish clothing_

_Holy jaws are dropping_

_Up in Heaven's hold_

_Plant in my hooves, my hooks, my books_

The dance took on a dark interpretation of madness and chaos.

_Once upon a time_

_Heaven was a towered tower_

_Tethered in its pride_

_Castor's grace is sour, sour_

_Thought the ink was dried_

_But hellish gardens flowered_

_Ivy to be climbed_

_Spread my filth, my wings, my weeds, my weeds_

The audience whispered, pleased at the oddity of the dance. The lights above them flickered, changing colors of red and yellow, making it appear like they were being engulfed in fire. Sylvia glanced at their faces, all bewildered, but amazed.

"Pick it up," Sylvia instructed. "Faster—and mind your feet!"

_My fairest wheels are turning_

"My feet are killing me," Tiffany moaned.

Sylvia rolled her eyes and made a scathing noise. Of all days to complain…

_Tongues, Tongues_

_Slither in the mud_

_Slighter in the mud_

_That's a carnival grows, my son_

_That's a carnival grows_

The lights above the audience flickered red and orange again. Sylvia could feel her body becoming sore, and her ankles were screaming. But that bass—she could feel it jumping through her entire body, and the sounds of awe coming from the audience kept her calves popping.

_Tongues tongues_

_Slither in the psalms_

_Slither in the psalms_

_That's a carnival grows my son_

_That's how a carnival grows_

For a fourth time, the lights flickered red, orange, and yellow. And that was the cue. Sylvia snapped her fingers. In the dance, an interpretation of madness and escalating chaos, Henry grabbed his lighter from inside his jacket and quickly set the material on Sylvia's sleeve on fire.

The audience screamed in fright, but as the dancers separated in a circle around her, Sylvia became a spinning human torch. The fire rose and rose above her, tickling the heat lamps above, giving the illusion that the fire was greater than it really was. Seeing that it was part of the show, the audience had stopped screaming, and instead, clapped, rising to their feet, and whistled in amazement.

"Holy fucking hell," Henry muttered.

" _Now_ , Tiffany!" Josh snapped, looking fearfully on as Sylvia's dress became completely engulfed in the fire.

"Not yet!" Tiffany squeaked. "She has to lie down first!"

"Shut up, fuckers, the audience can hear us!" Henry snapped, pointing at the crowd.

"No, they can't—they're cheering too loudly!" Tiffany said, glancing uneasily at the crowd.

"Can she really burn this long?" Josh asked in undertone.

They, along with their other dancing counterparts, knelt down and made bowing motions to the woman that was dancing in the fire. Her arms were lit with red and orange, and it was only when she knelt down in the flame did Tiffany pull off her cape and dramatically put it over Sylvia's body.

When the audience piped down to see what would happen next in both anticipation and slightly fear, Tiffany stood to her feet and pulled the cape off Sylvia.

She had disappeared.

Henry grinned broadly, both pleased and surprised that the illusion was actually pulled off. When the crowd realized the magic trick, they were all in a frenzied applause. Tiffany, Henry, Josh, and the others bowed at the waist.

In mid-bow, Tiffany hissed, "Where did she go?"

"Below us." Henry reminded. "Remember, the floor drops."

"I hope she's okay," Josh muttered. "The heat coming off her was pretty hot."

"It's fire, you idiot. Of course, it is going to be hot."

"I'm just saying," said Josh as they bowed once more, "That was a risky move."

"Well, Sylvia is a risky woman. If you knew her as long as Tiffany and I have, you wouldn't be worried."

Underneath the floorboard, Sylvia pulled off the plastic-like material that had crusted onto her dress. In all retrospect, she'd burned a lot longer than what she might have thought; Henry had set her on fire thirty seconds too soon, and to avoid any mistakes for the wiser, she'd let it melt her dress. Despite it all, Sylvia could hear the whooping and hollering from the adults in the audience and was pleased at the way things had turned out.

Aside from a few first degree burns on her thighs from where the dress had latched itself onto her (instead of freely flowing like it should have), she couldn't have hoped for a better performance. Seeing the risk, she'd taken to make it a memorable moment, Sylvia guessed that those talent scouts in the audience would be asking for her name in due time.

Sylvia walked through the underground floorboards and lifted and sifted up through the hatch, pushing it up and finding herself on the other side of the stage. Tiffany saw her first and quickly ran to her side.

"Are you okay?" Tiffany asked breathlessly.

"Peachy." Sylvia answered, shrugging her shoulders.

Tiffany brushed some ashes off Sylvia's cheek; Sylvia thought it was an odd thing for her to do but didn't think much on it when Tiffany smiled in spite of her fear.

"You make a lovely dancing torch," She noted, smirking at her. "One would think you were one with the flames."

Josh noticed Sylvia on the other side of the stage and started towards her as well. Sylvia smirked when he hugged her middle; the young man, although eighteen years old, was taller than she (almost everyone was taller than her), but the way he looked at her was similar to the way a son looked at his long-lost mother.

"Bring her on stage," said Tiffany, pushing Sylvia towards the center.

When the audience saw who had orchestrated the entire thing, they clapped and raised their hands and jumped. Sylvia did a curtsy, grinning at them all.

Dr. Thompkins joined her on stage; Henry, Tiffany, and Josh stepped back, and Lee looked at Sylvia as though she'd just lost her breath before taking it back.

"You were fantastic, Sylvia!" Lee gushed, holding a microphone. She turned to the audience and said, "Wasn't she?"

People hooted and hollered, whistling.

"Sylvia Cobblepot, everyone," Lee said, taking Sylvia's wrist and raising it above her head. "Fire Dancer!"

Sylvia blushed at all the attention she was receiving, and that the name Lee had effectively coined for her on the spot.

"You had me scared to pieces," Lee said quietly, placing the microphone out of ear shot so the others wouldn't hear; the audience started talking among themselves. "You lit yourself on _fire_ —when I said I wanted something amazing, I didn't really mean _that_."

"Well, it _was_ amazing."

"If Jim ever found out that I asked you to light yourself on fire, he'd break up with me."

"Well, it was _my_ idea. You wanted something memorable, something folks would like to see. I got you that much."

"I was hoping for like a disappearing act, or something to do with mirrors."

"This is Gotham," said Sylvia, lowering her hand and smirking at Lee. "People in Gotham have seen everything. If you want to 'wow' them, you have to do something they've never seen before."

"Well, setting yourself on fire was definitely new. You might have outshined the magician though."

"Magic is magic."

"Will you stay for it?"

"The magician?"

"Yes—I hear he's pretty good."

"Why not. But if he sets _himself_ on fire, I'm going to have to ask for a royalty check."

"Speaking of which. Remind me to get my checkbook—I'll have to pay you."

"I told you I didn't want money."

"You put your life on the line, it's the least I can do," Lee said quickly.

Sylvia glanced at the audience, at the many people who had just witnessed her belly dance like a torched goddess. Perhaps it had been a great risk to take, but Sylvia had never felt more powerful being set on fire than when she had performed anywhere else. The act itself had been worth it all, but since she was trying to make it as a performer, perhaps it was due time to get paid for what she was good at doing.

"Fine, but later." Sylvia told Lee regarding the financial restitution.

"Fine then."

Sylvia strolled off stage, rubbing her arms and wrist. Perhaps she'd gotten more burns than what she'd thought; her thighs hurt, sure, but as the lights lifted to their original fluorescent hues, Sylvia saw that her skin had turned pink from the burning flames.

"Definitely getting paid.

She turned and moved backstage. Tiffany, Henry, and Josh were waiting for her.

"Ready?" Tiffany asked.

"Ready for what?" Sylvia asked.

"To go to dinner," Henry reminded. "You said we'd all go…"

"I've decided to stay for the magician," Sylvia said, smiling. "But you all are more than free to go. Here…" From the inside of her dress, she pulled out a money clip that had more than enough for two nights out in Gotham. "Take this, get what you like. And again, thank you for all your hard work."

"You're not coming with us?" Tiffany asked, crestfallen.

"Like I said. I'm staying for the magician."

"Fine by me," said Henry, shrugging. He smiled charmingly at Tiffany, holding his arm out to her, "My lady?"

Tiffany looked at Sylvia who nudged her forward with her eyes. Tiffany placed her hand on Henry's arm. She and Henry strolled off, leaving Josh alone with her.

"Do you want me to go too?" Josh asked quietly.

"You can stay or go—it's up to you what you do tonight, kid. Do you like magicians?"

"Not really. I find their illusions to be more for kids than adults."

"You _are_ a kid."

"I guess I will go with Tiffany and Henry. But they're kind of getting close if you know what I mean."

"Being a third wheel, huh?"

"Something like that."

"Well, being a third wheel can be pretty fun too. Cock blocking is like a sport," Sylvia said, smiling mischievously. "I couldn't help but see that Henry was being a bit of a prick to you earlier."

"He's just jealous because I was partnered up with Tiffany."

"So, you _don't_ want to cockblock Henry?"

"Won't he hurt me if I do?"

"Damn, kid, you need to live a little," said Sylvia, shaking her head. "Henry is too forward, too direct and Tiffany likes subtlety. You could help those two along if you're the chaperone, you know. Henry will be a little more behaved, and Tiffany won't feel the need to be more than accommodating."

Josh gave Sylvia a curious look saying, "Why are you telling me this?"

"You're socially awkward. You want to be their friend, but you don't know how, and you're talking to _me_ because you like to feel useful, wanted—something living on the streets doesn't give you."

"Are you always this blunt and straightforward?"

"Spend more time around me, kiddo, and you'll expect nothing else from me. But you know I am right. I know I'm right. I'm providing you a chance to be social with Tiffany and Henry. But, if you don't want to feel socially obligated, I can give you the order to go out and eat at a restaurant with Tiffany and Henry."

"How would ordering me to go out and have fun make this any easier?"

"I can fire you and put you back on the street if that's not enough motivation," Sylvia offered calmly.

Josh stared at her. Sure enough, Sylvia had hired him indefinitely to be a dancer on her team; after he auditioned and shown that he had the legs to work with and the drive, Josh had originally gone on board with the promise of a homecooked meal. For the past few weeks, he had happily come to work (AKA her club) to rehearse to get those three meals a day, but now, he had come to work just to see her.

Despite her unpredictable mood swings and violent temper, Sylvia was otherwise personable, and friendly. Her motherly way about her had made Josh more than ready to do whatever she wanted.

Josh could see that Sylvia was trying to help him get more friends—he liked Tiffany enough, but Henry was a bully in his mind. But it was when Sylvia threatened to send him back to the streets that he could see why Henry and Tiffany both feared and respected their boss.

"No," Josh said quietly. "You don't have to do that."

"I don't _want_ to fire you and put you on the streets," Sylvia said calmly. "But I'm giving you what you want—which is friendship. But you can't just be 'friends' with me, Josh. You have to have other friends as well. Tiffany is nice enough. Henry is rough around the edges, but you get used to it."

Josh stepped forward and hugged Sylvia once more. It lasted a lot longer than what was deemed necessary or comfortable, but knowing Josh was socially awkward made it somehow bearable.

"Thank you, Miss Sylvia. Should I come to the club tomorrow?"

"We're not practicing tomorrow. Take tomorrow off."

"Can I spend my day off at your club though?"

Sylvia cocked her head to the side.

"Sure," She said softly. "Sure, you can. Come by tomorrow—I might just find a position for you. But no drinking: You're not 21 yet, and I may be breaking plenty of laws, but I won't break that one."

"Yes, ma'am."

"JOSH!"

Josh and Sylvia glanced up to see Henry and Tiffany waving their hands impatiently.

"We're going to 'Rover's'—get your ass over here so we can go already!" Henry shouted.

"Rough around the edges, indeed," Josh muttered.

Sylvia smirked as Josh lumbered forward and after Henry, who wrapped his arm around Tiffany's waist; the trio moved out and Sylvia rubbed her neck, standing in the backstage. She found a full-length mirror, and looked at her reflection, pulling her hair out of the tightened bun and allowing her red locks to fall around her shoulders.

" _Ooh, lookie, it's another ginger."_

Sylvia could hear the accent but didn't recognize the voice. She turned to see a young man, dressed in theatrical clothes, and adorning a red beard. It looked fake for all its intended (or perhaps unintended) purposes, but Sylvia assumed that this dramatic looking man was the alleged magician.

"Who are you?"

"That's not important," He said in (was it Italian?) the accent. "I want to know… _who are **you**_?"

He took her hand and kissed the back, making smacking noises with his lips as he said, "Mm, scrumptious!"

Sylvia chuckled. A magician, and a comedian.

"I'm the Great Rudolpho," said the young man. "And it was a _pleasure_ watching your act. I've never seen such passion for the theatre. Setting yourself on fire was a nice touch."

"Well, you know, whatever makes the audience gasp in shock—seems to make the papers around here."

"Well, I know _I_ gasped in shock and _awe_ ," Rudolpho corrected. "And I am _awe-_ fully pleased to have met you, Fire Dancer."

Sylvia snorted at the pun but was otherwise charmed. He kissed her hand again and Sylvia left him to his preparation. She was now a part of the crowd, standing in the same black dress, although less flame-retardant. Red eyeshadow and winged eyeliner had somehow managed to stay intact despite the heat, and Sylvia made a note to leave a five-star review for the makeup companies.

"So how do you go from being in the Royal Marines, to being a butler?"

Sylvia heard Lee's familiar voice and she followed it, smirking when she saw that Lee was talking to Alfred Pennyworth; Bruce was absent at the moment and with the conversation that followed, Sylvia was grateful that he was.

Alfred was making an awkward attempt to ask Lee out on a date; unknown to him, of course, that she was already taken by Sylvia's brother. A good person might have excused Alfred from the inevitable embarrassment when he found out Lee was taken, but Sylvia was a frequent visitor of mischief; she stood on the wayside, smirking to herself when the conversation continued; she stood behind Alfred, and occasionally, Lee glanced at her in hopes that Sylvia might cease the conversation, but to no avail.

"You have the most beautiful eyes," Alfred began.

Lee chuckled and said, "Wow, okay…look, thank you but…"

And like a life saver, Bruce stepped in and said quickly, "I'd like to go now, Alfred."

Since the billionaire boy was going to make an entrance to save Lee, Sylvia figured she might as well join the crowd and she popped in as well.

"Hello, hello again!" Sylvia said, grinning at the trio. "And here are we again—reunited."

Alfred glanced at her and said lightly, "And without third degree burns—it's like magic!"

"I'm full of surprises."

"No doubt that you are."

"I'd like to go, Alfred," Bruce repeated.

"Well, what about Dr. Thompkins' water?" He questioned pointedly. "Not to mention you might miss the magician…."

"I'm sorry, Dr. Thompkins," said Bruce politely. "I must have forgotten your water." Then he said to Alfred, "Again, I'd like to leave now."

Lee asked with concern, "Are you feeling all right?"

"Oh, he's feeling fine," Alfred said, patting Bruce on the back. "I say, Master Bruce, why don't you just pop by the bar…"

And while those two spoke in undertones, a man dressed in a bright tuxedo stepped towards Lee and whispered something just as quietly. Lee interrupted Bruce and Alfred's undertone disagreement saying, "If you would excuse me; I roped myself into emcee duties, so…" She made off to the stage to introduce the magician. Sylvia watched after her with her arms crossed, smirking when Bruce and Alfred continued to disagree under their breaths.

"Don't like magicians, do you, Mister Wayne?" Sylvia questioned knowingly.

"Of course, he does," Alfred reaffirmed.

Bruce glared at him, but Sylvia smiled regardless. What a pair….

The music died naturally, and the ladies and gentlemen took their seats. Sylvia remained beside herself but smiled inwardly when Bruce chose to stand beside her; Alfred glanced at him curiously, but said nothing, taking Sylvia's other side.

"Good Evening," said Lee into the microphone, her voice heard throughout the large room. "I am Dr. Lee Thompkins. I've had the honor of being part of Children's Hospital. Thank you for your support and thank you so much for coming out tonight. Over the years, we've had magicians come and entertain your children. Tonight, we have one of the magicians here to entertain you. Please join me in welcoming him tonight: The Great Rodolpho."

The applause that followed was one of anticipation and (perhaps) skepticism.

A woman dressed all in glittering pink and fluffy white trim strode daintily on stage; on her face, she wore a white mask. A box stood on stage; when she opened it, there was no one inside. Feigning shock, she closed the box. The audience chuckled in amusement. When she opened it a second time, the Great Rudolpho stood.

Sylvia recalled their earlier interaction, wondering if he would be just as charming on stage as he was behind it. It was all an illusion, she knew it as well as the adults, and she was happy to go along with it; she, personally, _loved_ magicians.

"Good Evening, ladies and germs—I am, indeed, the Great Rudolpho! And please…ogle my lovely assistant," Rudolpho mused, gesturing to the woman. He guffawed theatrically.

His first trick was holding a red cloth in both hands, and when he dropped the cloth, he held a rose. He gave it to his lovely assistant, who smiled at him; she tossed it to the audience, provided she had a good arm because the rose fell to Sylvia, who caught it.

Rudolpho chuckled, "Looks like my lovely assistant found _her_ own lovely assistant."

The seated guests turned in their own chairs and noticed Sylvia holding the rose; the spotlight suddenly shifted, putting her (literally) on the spot. The woman waved at her; Sylvia waved back, and the crowd tittered in response.

Rudolpho continued his next trick: doing the same thing with the rose, but instead, appearing in his hand, was a dove; it flew off and out of the building.

"For my next trick," Rudolpho announced. "I will need two volunteers! Let's see…duck, duck, duck, duck… _Goose._ "

Rudolpho pointed squarely at Bruce Wayne. Sylvia glanced at him, as did everyone else expectantly. As the woman strolled off stage to collect the volunteer, Rudolpho continued: "While we're at it, let's just bring up the lovely lady next to him! Let's give them some encouragement!"

Bruce had yet to take the lady's hand, opting not to go on stage and make himself known. He was reluctant to be at the gala to begin with. Sensing his reluctance, Sylvia probed him forward with her own hand as she placed her other in the woman's palm.

"Don't keep the lady waiting," Alfred encouraged.

"Fine…" Bruce muttered. He took the assistant's hand, and both he and Sylvia followed her onto the stage.

"What's your name, my dear," Rudolpho said, smiling widely at her.

"Sylvia Cobblepot."

"Ohhh," Rudolpho said with a larger grin, "We have the Penguin's wife on stage with us. We should all be so honored."

"You can _be_ whatever you want, Great Rudolpho," Sylvia mused, giving him a sarcastic smile.

Half the audience collectively chuckled, while the other half looked uneasily at one another. Bruce was beside himself, not certain whether he was more reluctant to be on stage or to be standing in between Sylvia and the magician.

"Let's have you stand right there," Rudolpho said lightly, gesturing to his assistant, "And you, young man, you can climb onto the table, and we'll get this magic trick a-rolling!"

Bruce did as he was instructed. Sylvia remained standing beside the woman, who peered at her. There was something familiar about her, something Sylvia couldn't pin down but whatever it is, she wasn't too pressured by it. As Bruce climbed into the contraption, Rudolpho held two sharp, metal plates.

"Don't worry, young man, this won't hurt a bit!" Rudolpho said mischievously.

Convinced that he may be in harm's way, Sylvia saw Alfred step forth in protest, but just as he did, Rudolpho had split the boy's body in half; of course, the splitting itself was done all in illusion so when the half of the table containing his legs was pulling aside, Bruce's upper half, still intact, waved on the cue of the magician to do so.

"Does this young man happen to have a name?" Rudolpho asked.

"Bruce!"

"It's Bruce!" He called, grinning widely. "And such a brave man, Bruce is! Let's give him a round of applause, while I put him back together again."

Sylvia watched both halves of him become one and Bruce, unharmed and unscathed, climbed off the table and was escorted back to his butler by the young woman. Rudolpho then turned to Sylvia, who looked at him expectantly.

"Tell me, _mon Cherie_ , do _you_ want to be split in half?" Rudolpho questioned.

 _Yes, but not by you_ , Sylvia wanted to say. However, she said, "You do the same trick twice, Great Rudolpho, one might think you're a one-trick pony."

Having said this in the microphone, the audience made 'ooohs' of skepticism and was hoping that the magician would show her up.

Rudolpho smirked at her: "Put your hands together."

"Fine then." Sylvia said, curious. She put her palms together as instructed.

"Now repeat after me," Rudolpho said. He put his hands around hers. "Butterfly, butterfly…"

"Butterfly, butterfly."

"Butterfree, butterfree…"

"This is ridiculous," Sylvia noted.

"Well, see, you messed it up so now we have to begin again," Rudolpho said. (The audience chortled.). "So again…Butterfly, butterfly."

Sylvia recited, "Butterfly, butterfly."

"Butterfree, butterfree."

"Butterfree, butterfree."

"Short or tall, wide or small."

"Short or tall, wide or small…"

"Now there's two of me." Rudolpho stated.

"Now there's two of me…"

She waited. He waited. The whole entire audience waited. Sylvia glanced at the magician, skeptically.

"Now look in your hand." Rudolpho encouraged.

"What am I supposed to…whoa…" Sylvia muttered. When she opened her palms, she saw a picture of herself in the same position as she, with Rudolpho. "Damn…that's some magic."

"Show the audience what you're holding," Rudolpho encouraged. "While you do, I'd like the Deputy Mayor to come up on the stage; my lovely assistant, would you kindly?"

Sylvia showed the audience what she held in her hand. When she did, she saw the back of the picture as well. And it was signed…

**It IS an awful pleasure,**

  1. **Valeska**



Sylvia looked up as the Deputy Mayor stood on stage, and a table of knives were revealed by the lovely assistant. Sylvia looked at the audience; her nerves were suddenly getting to her; she was jittery, and her belly was suddenly churning.

When she saw that Lee Thompkins was no longer standing beside Bruce and Alfred, Sylvia was certain something bad was going to happen. And just like that…

"By the way," Rudolpho drawled. "No one is getting out of here alive."

A few people in the audience chuckled. And it happened…Rudolpho picked up one of the gleaming knives on the tray and he threw it sharply in the direction of the Deputy Mayor, catching him in the chest, and killing him. Following that, three waiters pulled the towels off their arms, revealing machine guns which peppered the ceiling with bullet holes, sending the audience of 200 ladies and gentlemen scattering. Sylvia glanced quickly at the woman, who now took off her mask.

"Barbara," Sylvia recognized her instantly.

"Hey, girlfriend," She said, winking at her. "Long time, no see."

Sylvia saw the Great Rudolpho surely reveal himself as the young man who'd signed her photograph; Jerome Valeska, standing in the flesh. He smiled at her wickedly.

"Why is it that I get inadvertently wrapped up in all of this," Sylvia said, unusually calm. "I just came out here to dance and watch magic tricks…"

"I know," Barbara said with an impish grin. "It's like you live in Gotham or something."

"Sarcasm? _Really_? I guess there would be no point in trying to leave?"

"All the doors are barricaded," Barbara said, watching the people scurry under the table when they realized they couldn't leave.

"And hiding is out of the question?"

"Clearly."

"I suppose shooting you would be counterproductive."

"You don't have a gun."

"Don't I…" Sylvia mused.

"It's in your shoe…" Barbara guessed.

Sylvia scoffed, "Not even close."

Jerome Valeska turned to look at the two of them saying, "Should _I_ check?"

"If you want to lose a hand," Sylvia offered darkly.

Jerome smirked saying, "I think it would be worth it, actually."

Sylvia glanced at Barbara pointedly; the woman shrugged and held out her hand. Sylvia reached under her dress and pulled the gun that was strapped to the outside of her thigh; she placed it in Barbara's hand, and the woman grinned at her.

"Leave it to you to be honest with a criminal," Barbara sighed, shaking her head. "You and Jim are a lot more alike than I care to admit."

"Leave it to you to say something so sweet."

Jerome glanced at Sylvia saying, "You're a lot calmer than Jim…you're not scared of me, are you?"

"You're a kid. There's a lot more fucked up things to be afraid of in this town than you, kiddo."

" _Put her there_ ," Barbara ordered.

Sylvia and Jerome glanced at Lee Thompkins who was being manhandled by one of the waiters; the waiter strapped her into a wheel, careful not to hurt any vital part of her. Barbara squeaked happily as she spun the contraption lightly, making Lee go around and around, before stopping it to prove a point.

"Why aren't you putting _her_ on this thing?" Lee asked, glancing at Sylvia incredulously.

"She and I are best friends," Barbara said sweetly. "Besides, _she_ isn't a mad-raving harpy trying to get in between Jim and me. _You_ are, bitch."

"Wow, a little harsh there, B." Sylvia muttered.

"Well, it's true." Barbara said coolly, glaring ostentatiously at Lee, who stared at Sylvia.

"You're _in_ on this?" Lee questioned heatedly.

"Of course not. But I know when I am beat."

Proving a point, Sylvia sat on the table that Bruce had only minutes ago occupied. Jerome grinned widely and said to Barbara, "See, I like when things go easily—you're not bad for a cop's sister."

"I'm also married, so don't get any fucking ideas," Sylvia threatened lowly.

"Ooh, _feisty_." Jerome drawled.

"Stop hassling her, Jerome," Barbara chided.

"Jeez…" Jerome said, rolling his eyes. "You, women, are _so_ hard to please. This one wants to go" (He gestured to Lee) "You like her…. or hate her or something" (He gestured to Barbara, referring to Sylvia) "And you…I don't know what to think about you yet, Doll face."

Sylvia scrunched her nose at him in a mocking way, but Jerome only found her childish response to be adorable.

"Get me down!" Lee said.

Sylvia looked down at her (Lee was upside down for the moment) and said logically, "Physically, I'm able to, but you know…if I try to save you, I'll get shot."

Sylvia glanced at Barbara and Jerome respectively saying, "Right? If I try anything, I'll get shot?"

"You got it, Fire Dancer."

"See?" Sylvia said, glancing at Lee. "And you're fine right now. No one's harmed you yet."

"'Yet' is the operative word here," Barbara noted.

"Please don't hurt her," Sylvia said callously. "If you do, as Jim's sister, I'll be obliged to do something about it and I'm in no fucking mood to get shot."

"But you'll willingly light yourself on fire," Barbara pointed out.

"'Willingly' is the operative word. I _willingly_ lit myself on fire. I'm not willing to get shot. There's a difference there."

"I really _have_ missed you. We used to be so close. What happened?"

"You went to Arkham Asylum, escaped, became part of the Maniax, and, now, you're placing me in an odd position by placing my brother's girlfriend on a spinning wheel of death."

Jerome said amusedly, "She's got a point."

"Stay out of this," Barbara chastised. "This is _girl_ talk. And you're not a girl."

"Not that you know of," Jerome replied seriously.

"Well, that's a little too much information for me," Sylvia said, raising her eyebrows and waving her hand away at him.

"Well, if you think _that_ was TMI," Jerome drawled, "You do _not_ want to know what I'm thinking about—I'll give you a hint. It involves the two of us."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, saying, "You're eighteen years old, Jerome. I'm twice your age."

"Well, if you're willing, I am too."

Lee glared at the three of them saying, "I'm the one strapped to a spinning board, and I'm not even sure that I'm the uncomfortable one."

"No," Sylvia sighed, "I'm pretty sure you're the uncomfortable one."

"Shut up, shut up," Jerome said quickly, "I'm making a phone call."

Sylvia Barbara glanced at each other and they muttered simultaneously, "How rude…"

By this time, the cameras were rolling; the live feed from the cameras in the room were pulled to the video networks, and all the channels of the new station were rolling. With Barbara standing in front of Lee, who was (now) sitting upright on the spinning wheel; Jerome stood on one side of the table while Sylvia sat on said table, looking more or less stiff, but otherwise safe.

It was clear who Jerome was talking to when he said excitedly, "Sorry, Jimbo, it's just little old me…"

And unfortunately, it was a one-way conversation. Sylvia could only imagine what Jim was responding like…but she could guess by the way Jerome responded.

"Are you outside?" Jerome questioned, gasping mockingly. "Oh, you are! You are, aren't you…Goody! Breathe James, I haven't hurt a single hair on your girlfriend's head…or your sister—by the way, I can certainly tell who got the better genes in the family…"

Sylvia closed her eyes, inwardly groaning. Not only was Jim worried about Lee, but now he would be worried for his sister as well. Hopefully, he would keep his head, and think clearly—for all of their sakes.

"See for yourself—this is live television, after all…" Jerome mused darkly. "True, but not the point… Let's talk about what I want: 47 million dollars, a helicopter, obviously. The dry cleaning I left at Mr. Chang's—be careful, the man is a crook—and, oh I don't know…a pony! You've got ten minutes, and remember, this is being broadcast to every television in Gotham so you know—don't let people die!" He started laughing maniacally in the phone and then suddenly stopped, saying pointedly, "I think that went well."

Sylvia smiled in spite of herself; despite the horrors of the situation, she _did_ find Jerome's dark sense of humor to mirror her own.

" _Enough_!"

Sylvia, Barbara, Lee, and Jerome's attention centered on the man's voice. A man rose from the audience, like a shepherd among the sheep, and strode forward slowly. His hair was smoothed back, dark as his eyes, and there was a certain confidence in his drawl. Sylvia glanced at Barbara and Jerome; they recognized him—whomever this character was—but she did not recognize this man at all. He was probably new to Gotham.

"Enough," He repeated, stepping forward. "You need to pack up your little side-show and leave…"

Jerome put his hands in his pockets, none too affronted: "Is that right?"

"It may be presumptuous to speak for all the citizens of Gotham—"

 _Presumptuous is not the word I would use_ , Sylvia thought.

"—But we are sick of you!" The man insisted dramatically. "You are a small, vicious man with a pathetic need for attention."

Jerome happily gestured to himself like 'You're right, that's me!'

"Enough, man! For god's sakes, enough."

"I'm sorry," Jerome said (not sorry at all), "But I'm curious what your leverage is here, Mister…"

"Theo Galavan," the man said low but sternly into the camera.

"Well, Mister _Theo Galavan_ " Jerome mocked, imitating the low voice as well, "If you don't sit down, I'm gonna shoot you in the face."

"I know there is still some human decency left in you," said Galavan (Jerome gestured to himself quizzically) "If you need a hostage, take me. But let these people go, to their homes, to their families!"

Ah, family…

Sylvia had forgotten this was being streamed live. So not only was Jim able to watch this, so would Oswald. And to think that she let Gabe go home, thinking nothing would happen. She'd have to bend over backwards (maybe even on a sexual note) to keep Oswald from killing Gabe; Oswald would blame him if anything happened to her.

Put that on a note of things to do when she finally got out of this wreck.

Just as Galavan had finished his heroic speech to save people, Barbara hit him over the head with what appeared to be some type of sledgehammer; and the man went down with a thud.

"Boring," Barbara sighed.

"Right?" Jerome agreed.

Lee looked helplessly at Sylvia, who returned the same look with just cause. She was more than happy to sit and wait this out; that's what most people failed to do during trivial times such as these; everyone wanted to act out, play the hero—when all was needed was really to sit it out. Let the villains get bored. Then again, Jerome seemed to be the type to find his own amusement in any way possible. So maybe sitting and 'waiting it out' was more of a death sentence than a logical tactic.

"So," Barbara sighed, looking at Sylvia (and ignoring Lee). "How have you been?"

"I've been."

"Not very specific, are you?"

"Well, be more specific, please. You pretty much have Lee and me hostage, and you want me to enlighten on you on my life? You see how stupid that sounds?"

"I can see that being held hostage hasn't stopped you from resorting to sarcastic humor."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I've been a lot more sarcastic the last time we met."

"That _does_ kind of make me feel better," Barbara said sweetly. "You look good…"

"So, do you," Sylvia said honestly.

"Are we really doing this?" Lee questioned irritably. "Are you _really_ going to make small talk with this insane psycho while I—"

"No one's talking to you, _Lee_ ," Barbara snarled. She growled inwardly before turning to look at Sylvia, saying, "I've missed you, you know. Your humor, your pretty looks—you know, I've always had a thing for you, but being with Jim, I guess, made me forget that."

"This is _not_ the time to come onto me, Babs."

"Yeah, well, I waited too long. Good-looking girl like you, I knew you'd be taken off the market before I was single again."

"Technically, you were single when I was still somewhat on the market. But you were in Arkham."

"And you were dating that Penguin fella. So, you weren't really on the market."

"Point taken."

"You never did send me a wedding photo," Barbara reminded.

"Well, you were out of Arkham by then, and I didn't exactly have an address to send the picture to, even if I remembered."

"Hm. Point taken."

"Unbelievable," Lee muttered irritably.

"We used to be really close friends, just so you know," Barbara said to Lee, annoyed. "We're just catching up after all this time."

"What a time to catch up," Lee snarled.

"Well, if you had any close girlfriends, _you_ would know, wouldn't you?" Barbara said harshly.

Jerome was doing his own thing, taking, and picking volunteers and making them stand in front of him. One of them, he'd chosen, and he'd placed an apple on the man's head. He took a shot, and pulled the trigger; instead, water spewed from it—revealing it to be a water gun.

Sylvia smirked, finding it funnier than she ought to have. Barbara also giggled.

"Damn." Jerome said, in mock disappointment. "Turn around. Go on…" He twirled the real gun in a single motion and the man reluctantly and fearfully did as he was told. Jerome then pulled the trigger, and the apple exploded.

A few gasped, but everyone was sitting in their chairs, too stunned to say anything.

"Well, _clap!_ " Jerome snapped.

Everyone applauded on cue. Jerome moved towards Sylvia, grinning at her broadly.

"What do you need from me _now_?" She questioned.

"Well, my dear, it's not so much what I need as it is 'what do I want'?"

Sylvia stared at him.

"Ask me," Jerome said with a childish giggle.

"Ask you what?"

"Ask me 'what do you want'?"

"This is ridiculous."

"Humor me," Jerome encouraged.

"Fine. 'What do you want'?"

"You."

"That's not happening."

"You don't even know what I want you for," Jerome responded logically.

"Well, it can't be for anything good."

"You're a smart woman—I'll give you that," said Jerome slyly. "But come with me anyway."

He took her wrist and pulled her off the table. Sylvia followed, albeit cautiously. He held out to her one of the guns—the water gun. She took it despondently.

"Do you know the game 'Russian Roulette'?" Jerome asked.

"I do."

"Do you want to play?"

"Not really."

"Do you want to play?"

"You just asked me that question."

"That's because I want a different answer." Jerome said coolly, although she sensed the irritation in his voice steadily drawing to the surface.

"Fine. Ask me again."

"Do you want to play?"

"No." Sylvia said coolly.

"That's…okay, _fine_ ," Jerome muttered. "We'll pretend you said 'yes'."

"You can pretend all you want, kid, but that's not what happened."

"You're infuriating."

"Glad to be of help," Sylvia said sarcastically.

"Hold this," Jerome insisted, placing the _real_ gun in her hand, and taking the water gun, throwing it to the crowd.

"Now…" Jerome said slowly. "Point it at me."

"No problem," Sylvia mused, doing as she was told. "Should I pull the trigger as well?"

"Whenever you—"

She didn't wait for him to answer; instead, Sylvia pulled the trigger but nothing came out.

Jerome gave her a look as to why she hadn't waited for him to build the suspense; this guy was all about the fun and anticipation, and less about the result. He liked to play games, to toy with people; Sylvia figured this one out long before she became a player.

"Is it my turn?" She asked, lowering the gun from his face.

"You've played before, right? You know it is."

"Forehead or mouth," Sylvia asked, implying the location of the gun.

"A woman after my own heart!" He considered the options before he motioned to her: "Player's choice."

Sylvia placed the gun directly underneath her jaw.

"Pull the trigger, Fire Dancer. Actually…before you do…Face the audience. I want the cameras to get a good shot of this—get it— 'shot'…"

No one laughed. Sylvia glanced at Lee, who was staring fearfully at her while Barbara looked amused.

"What if there's no bullet? Do I have to go again?"

"Nah." Jerome said, shaking his head and crossing his arms.

"Is there any reason in particular why we're doing this?" Sylvia questioned as she turned the chamber in the gun.

"Well, aside from waiting for Jimbo to get the stuff I have requested, nope. Plus, you just happened to be part of the audience, and you just _happened_ to be the most interesting person in this place," said Jerome, "but to answer your question: No."

"So, you're going to kill the most interesting person and then what?"

"I don't know—I'm just kind of winging it, at this point."

"You need an audience. Personally, I think everything you're doing is hilarious."

"Do you, really?" Jerome asked eagerly.

"Of course. The magic tricks, the water gun… _especially_ the water gun," Sylvia said, smiling at him.

Jerome stepped towards her and took the gun from her hand. Sylvia raised her eyebrows, surprised by the sudden response.

"You really _are_ a woman after my own heart," He said, smirking at her. "You're flattering me, though, buttering me up—you're doing that so I won't want you to kill yourself."

"Is it working?" Sylvia questioned softly.

Jerome leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "You have _no_ idea."

Uncertain as to what to do now, Sylvia looked at him for a cue. What now?

"I wonder what kind of chaos I could cause at home," Jerome said interestedly, "if your husband and your big brother saw us on live television. That would work for some extra drama, wouldn't it?"

"It would _definitely_ cause some anarchy."

"How about this…I'll let you live, Doll Face. But you're going to create your own chaos—just…for…me."

He put enough distance between them so that Sylvia would have to actually _walk_ over to him and kiss him, to prove her willingness. Sylvia could only imagine what kind of drama would ensue when Jim and Oswald saw her on national television, actually walk up to and kiss this maniac.

"You'll leave Lee alone," Sylvia demanded. "You won't kill her either."

"Maybe," Jerome said, smirking. "But uh…you'll have to keep your end of the bargain."

Sylvia glanced at Lee, who watched her helplessly from the spinning wheel. To save Lee's life and her own, Sylvia would have to kiss this guy, and explain this somehow to Oswald and Jim. Jim would understand—he was used to these dire situations, but would her newlywed husband understand?

_Fuck._

Jerome grinned widely.

He stood in front of the table on which Sylvia had only previously sat. A few feet from Lee and Barbara. Sylvia bit her bottom lip nervously before she sauntered forward and, before she could second-doubt her thoughts, Sylvia leaned forward and kissed him.

Not a simple, peck-on-the-cheek kiss. She grabbed his face, kissed him hard on the lips, and rolled her tongue inside his mouth.

Jerome responded happily and when it naturally broke, he whispered, "You are _one_ unpredictable babe, Fire Dancer."

Sylvia looked at him darkly. Just as the kiss ended, Barbara was threateningly taking the knife from the Deputy Mayor's chest and ready to stab Lee with it; Jerome bypassed Sylvia, steady on his word, and grabbed Barbara's wrist.

"It hasn't been ten minutes," Jerome stated pointedly. "We gotta buy you a watch…"

Instead, Barbara punched Lee in the face. Jerome rolled his eyes, and then took the microphone, saying, "Well, I think it's time for our first official victim of the night…You all know his name: orphan boy, parents _murdered_ in an alley, and my favorite volunteer: **_Bruuuuce_**!"

Sylvia rubbed her lips, licking her hand to get the taste of Jerome Valeska out of her mouth. Lee looked at her incredulously.

"Will you help me now?" Lee squeaked.

"I've helped enough," Sylvia gagged, licking the back of her hand to get the taste of Jerome out of her mouth.

"I'm feeling a little ill."

" _You're_ feeling ill?"

"Nice little kiss," Barbara teased, smirking at her. "Maybe you can give _me_ one."

"Fuck you."

"So rude," Barbara sighed, crossing her arms with mock hurt.

When Bruce Wayne didn't come out of hiding, Jerome started talking (no surprise, there): "Come on, Brucey. You know I'm an orphan too? But I killed _my_ parents."

As it turns out, Jerome had a nasty temper himself: " _Where are you hiding_! BRUCE!"

"Kill his butler."

Jerome gestured for the henchmen to bring Alfred forward; and, so they did. She wondered if she should have lengthened the names to include everyone in the vicinity rather than just excluding her and Lee from the list of potential victims…but she wasn't even sure what the price of that would have included. She would kiss Jerome to keep the two of them safe, but sleeping with him was a step too far.

"Alright," He lamented, "But it's going to get really Butler-brainy in here. BRUCE!"

"STOP!" Bruce said quickly, stepping forward.

"Fucking kids," Sylvia mumbled, rubbing her forehead. If only he'd just stayed behind the curtain, goddamn it. The kid was a natural born hero… _shit._

Bruce stepped forward, and Alfred protested. They exchanged some quick words, and just like that, Bruce was taken up the stage, taken hostage by Jerome; a knife to little Bruce's neck. Jerome ordered the henchmen to look behind the curtain, to be sure that no one was playing spy.

Just as they stepped behind it, gunshots fired. Sylvia saw Jim Gordon coming out from behind the heavy curtain, gun aimed; And it just so happened that Alfred was carrying as well. Both of them aimed their weapons at Bruce, but a clear shot was going to be hard to find. Jerome was using him as a human shield.

"Looks like we got ourselves in a pickle, Brucey boy," Jerome giggled. "What do you say, Bruce, you wanna boost our ratings?"

"I said ' _enough_ '!"

Theo Galavan stood, once more, in the spotlight, recovering from his knock-over-the-head. Having heard enough from the guy, Jerome completely dropped his guard and turned to tell him to fuck off, but just like that, he took his own shot and stabbed Jerome in the neck with a knife. Shocked, Jerome muttered something and was smiling, even as the knife dug deeper into his carotid artery; Galavan brought him down onto the stage, saving everyone in the gala.

Distracted by the death of Jerome Valeska, everyone seemed to forget about his assistant, that was until Lee called, "Jim! _Barbara_!"

Barbara quickly dashed to a clear cylinder and when the blanket came down over it, she'd vanished. Sylvia hurried to Lee's side and undid her straps, holding her arms until Lee gained balance. She pushed Sylvia away from her.

"We could have been killed!" Lee snapped. "And all you could do was sit there!"

"What the fuck did you want me to do, Lee?" Sylvia questioned harshly. "If I tried to save you, I'd be like the Deputy Mayor—dead. And, for your information, I didn't just _sit_ there!"

"You were playing along with him," Lee snarled, gesturing sharply to the dead body on stage. "You were playing his games!"

"I was playing along with him because it was better than playing _against_ him," Sylvia reminded. "And, by the way, _you're alive,_ aren't you?"

"You were going to kill yourself!"

"No, I wasn't. But it was convincing, wasn't it?" Sylvia returned, glancing at Jim, who came to stand beside Lee. "I was trying to win Jerome over—and I did."

"Very convincing," Jim reassured, although he appeared queasy. He turned to Lee. "Are you okay?"

"Am I _okay_! Your sister is—"

"—Ah, don't finish that," Jim and Sylvia said simultaneously.

"Personally, if it wasn't for Jerome having a thing for me," said Sylvia righteously, "You" (She looked at Lee) "would be dead because Barbara would have stabbed you in the face. The only reason Jerome stopped her was because I made a deal with him."

"That was the kiss…" Jim muttered incredulously.

"What—you think I'd kiss the creep for the fun of it?" Sylvia said disgustedly. "I think not! Now…if you don't mind, I'm going to go home, rinse my mouth out with Scope, and try to explain to my wonderful husband what happened."

"You'll have to give a statement."

"You know where I live. Come get the statement when you want."

"Do you want to sit down—can I get you a drink?" Jim said quickly, taking Sylvia's arm.

"I've dealt with worse," She reminded. "Comfort your girlfriend."

She gestured to Lee, who looked at Sylvia with what could only be described as relief, anger, and a little disbelief.

Sylvia started forward, leaving the building, but was stopped by Alfred and Bruce. Bruce looked relieved to see Sylvia alive; Alfred looked as though he had worked five days in a row, within one day.

"Glad to see you came out unscathed," Sylvia said, smiling at the two.

"You too…" Bruce said, not sure what else to say, really.

"That was quite the show," Alfred said, just as uneasily.

Sylvia nodded, and said good night to them. Just as she was about to leave, a hand took her own.

"For Christ's sake, Jim, I just want to go home!" Sylvia muttered tiredly. She turned to see that it was not Jim who had taken her wrist, but Theo Galavan. "Oh…I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else."

"Sorry to disappoint," Galavan said charmingly.

Sylvia looked at him pointedly, saying, "Thank you for saving all of us. I guess that's in order, isn't it?"

"Well, you did a fair job of distracting Jerome where I couldn't," He said, smiling in spite of himself. "Diversion is an excellent tactic. Seduction is a marvelous one—and you used it fairly well, Mrs. Cobblepot."

"Well, this has been a long night, so…if you'd excuse me…" Sylvia said politely. "I have what I can only imagine is a very upset husband I have to tend to back home."

"Of course," Galavan said, side-stepping her.

Sylvia quickly left the building, called Gabe, who quickly came and collected her. The ride home was one of silence, which Sylvia was most grateful. Gabe had a way of not having to say 'I told you so', even though he had every right to say so.

**Chapter 16: Who Do You Belong To**

Sylvia moved casually throughout the mansion; her heels clicked the hardwood floors, inadvertently announcing her presence. She stopped in front of the door leading to the meeting room where Oswald normally met with the other Five Families' leaders and it was until after a few minutes had passed did she recognize the voice belonging to Harvey Bullock; apparently, he'd made an impromptu visit.

She opened the door slowly, and saw Harvey sitting on the edge of the table, talking to Oswald. Seeing Oswald's hard expression, Sylvia doubted there was a friendly discussion taking place.

"See. There's talk on the street that Jim Gordon did a favor for you, collected a debt…and the guy ended up dead."

Oswald said smoothly, "They're rumors."

"'Rumors'."

"People talk. But then again…where there's smoke…"

From where she stood, Sylvia could not see Harvey's expression, but she doubted he was amused.

"Jim shouldn't worry. He and I are good friends."

"Well, see, I think he _is_ worried. There was an incident that happened today, and you were the most obvious person to go to for the answers, and I sensed that he was a little reluctant to come down here." Harvey accused. "Then again, if _my_ little sister was married to someone like you, I imagine I would be feeling a little reluctant too."

"Sylvia is a separate matter," Oswald said coolly.

"Well, that's just it, isn't it?" (Sylvia could **hear** the smirk in his voice.) "You know, I never came to the wedding, but I imagine it was _beautiful_. Belated congrats, by the way."

Harvey shifted in his position, while Oswald narrowed his eyes at him just slightly, slowly becoming irritated by his presence.

"Jim shouldn't worry about what happened, right? Just as long as you two _stay_ friends?"

"Exactly," said Oswald, smiling widely.

"Yeah…" He said stiffly, leaning forward ominously. "You know, I have half a mind to take you outside and beat you with a trash can—"

" _Harvey!"_

Just as the men were taking out their guns to protect their Alpha, both Harvey and Oswald turned their heads in her direction, startled by her presence.

"Well, look who it is." Harvey said, grinning widely at her. "It's Little Sister, promoted to 'Fire Dancer'."

So, the kiss had been broadcasted on national television. And the reference didn't go unnoticed by anyone in the room. The hired personnel glanced at one another awkwardly; Harvey was grinning so widely that his teeth were showing; and Oswald stiffened just a little more.

Harvey glanced at the guns pointing at him, turning to Oswald and said, "Maybe another time."

He got off the table and was just about to leave before he spun around, saying, "You can call yourself whatever you want, man: 'The King of Gotham'. But to me, you're still that umbrella boy—and if you go after Jim Gordon, you'll have to come after me first." Darkly, he added, "And I still owe you for Fish…"

He glanced at the men then at Sylvia before smiling again at Oswald, saying, "Love the place, by the way. Always a pleasure seeing you, Liv."

Sylvia watched him leave.

The sound of a wine glass shattering against the wall drew her attention back to Oswald who ordered Gabe to get him another drink. Sylvia moved fully into the room and glanced at the television that was now reporting everything that had happened at the gala, including the kiss.

Sylvia felt her insides curdle sickeningly as it replayed on the Tube.

"You mind explaining to me what _that_ was about?" Oswald questioned, glaring at her before turning off the television with finality.

Sylvia took a seat in the chair closest to him: "I only kissed him to save Lee and myself from being killed."

"You've been trained by a former agent of the CIA and you _know_ how to physically disarm and apprehend an eight-foot gorilla, and you're telling me that the **only** way you could protect yourself was by kissing Jerome Valeska?"

Sylvia frowned.

"Well, when you put it like _that_ it sounds like you think I might have wanted an affair with the kid."

" _Don't you tell me what to think_!" Oswald snapped, slapping his hand on the table.

"That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"

"What else would you have been willing to do in order to save your life?" He said coldly.

"What—you're asking if I would have slept with him?"

"You _know_ what I am implying!"

"I know—I'm just insulted that you'd even **think** about implying it," Sylvia quipped, crossing her arms. "I didn't _enjoy_ the kiss—it was a distraction, a way to keep the attention off Lee and everyone else."

"I don't _care_ about everyone else," Oswald seethed; his fingers gripped the arms of the chair.

Gabe had come back with a fresh glass and placed it on the table. Oswald glared at Gabe, his teeth baring.

"And you!" He spat, turning on him. "I _told_ you: **Stay**. **With**. **Her**!"

"She told me to go—" Gabe began, pointing in her direction.

Oswald suddenly stood to his feet, the chair scooting harshly across the wooden floor as he gesticulated violently, "AND I TOLD YOU TO STAY!"

"What did you want me to do, Boss?" Gabe asked helplessly. "The lady wanted me to go—she said she'd be fine…"

"I DON'T CARE WHAT SHE SAID!" Oswald bellowed. " _Your orders were to_ **STAY WITH HER**!"

Oswald was shaking with rage, eyes bright. It was unclear as to with whom he was angrier: it was a close second between Gabe and Sylvia…and Harvey's insinuation had not helped it any either.

"Oswald…" She began.

Seeing him so riled up made Sylvia feel things that she shouldn't.

"This wouldn't have happened if you'd have done what I'd ordered you to do," Oswald snarled at Gabe, who inched back from within the boss' reach. "I don't think I could have been any clearer!"

"Oswald."

Seeing him angry made her insides burn with passion. His anger, his fury at the idea of her life being in danger…

"And to think I—"

" _Oswald_!"

He turned to Sylvia, ready to lash out at her but Sylvia grabbed the collar of his suit and pulled him to her. He was quick to try and pull away, wanting more to bask in his agitation than allow her to distract him, but the moment her lips crashed against his, he seemed to melt like butter. Oswald responded to her; his fingers tangled behind her head among her red locks. What anger he still felt was now being tunneled into one emotion: Lust.

His intense gaze remained locked on her even as he ordered his men to get out of the room. They were quick to obey. It was not unlike having a group of children in the room ready to flee the wrath of a strict father. They closed the doors on their way to the exit, leaving Oswald and Sylvia alone.

"I know what I did upset you, but I want you to know you're the only man for me," Sylvia uttered against his lips. "Let me show you…"

Oswald responded dryly, "Why don't you."

Sylvia lowered herself to her knees and wasted little time as she unzipped his pants and pulled his semi-erect cock out. He sharply inhaled when she took him into her mouth. Seeing her on her knees, ready to please and be forgiven for her trepidation made Oswald hard in a matter of seconds.

"Look at me."

She lifted her gaze to him.

Oswald grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled; she let out a moan, and the vibration of it left him wanting more. He shoved her head down, forcing her to take more of him, and he groaned when he heard her gag.

"I know you can take more than that, Sylvia." Oswald condescended. And how he loved seeing her narrow her eyes, challenging him silently. Her hands moved behind him, nails digging into his buttocks as though she was trying to respond to his remark.

But she took more of him without resistance, perhaps to prove a point, but he was satisfied either way. He was getting close—oh, so fucking close—and so quick already.

Fuck…the things this woman could do to him in so little time.

"Who do you belong to?" Oswald groaned.

He was teetering between a powerful orgasm and the desire to continue hearing Sylvia's desperate moans; she was so eager to satisfy, so desperate to make him come. Her muffled response made him smile.

He yanked her head back by the handful of her hair, and she let him go with a _pop_. Her lips were swollen, and a fair amount of drool ran down her chin. He grinned widely, seeing Sylvia's eyes fully blown with desire.

He sat on his throne, and she looked at him reproachfully. He made a gesture of 'come hither' and she moved towards him, on her knees. Sylvia licked her lips in anticipation.

"Continue."

Sylvia nodded obediently, and with her hands placed on his knees, she lowered her mouth to his cock and did as she was told. Oswald relaxed his head against the back of the chair, entangling his hands in her hair. He set the pace, the rhythm. He fully intended to take advantage of her repentance; at this moment, her head slowly bobbed up and down, taking him deep within her throat. Her tongue massaged his shaft, and the very feel of it made Oswald moan quietly.

"Who do you belong to?" Oswald whispered.

Sylvia responded by squeezing his thighs.

"Good answer," He praised.

He looked down at her, watching more than just her. Pulling her hair from her face, Oswald could see the vision before him; her eyes were closed, basking in the moment. Her only focus was him.

How she worshipped the ground on which he stood…how, currently, her entire world was focused on _him_ , nothing and no one else. If Satan had ever sent up a demon to deliver his soul to him, this vixen would be the one to carry it to Hell, indeed.

Her lips grew taut around him, and she sucked. Her soft, desperate moans created vibrations through his cock, and pleasurable chills ran down his back. Suddenly, he felt too constricted by his clothes, too hot and bothered.

God, he was so close.

So, fucking close…

His hips lifted, thrusting his cock inside her mouth. And she was all too keen on how close he was to the edge. Like the smart girl she was, Sylvia took him all the way to the base, balls deep; he grabbed both sides of her face and began to fuck her mouth.

She braced herself, gripping the sides of his seat and let him do what he wanted. Her moans and his grunts became one sound, filling the room. When he came, she swallowed every ounce that he gave her; and after, she licked the tip of his cock like it was a lollipop. Oswald panted, looking down at her, smiling contentedly when she grinned back.

Sylvia wiped her saliva off with the back of her hand. As she stood, she pulled down her panties; as she straddled him, she lifted the hem of her dress, so he could see how he affected her.

"Are you still my girl?"

She answered hoarsely, "Always."

She stood to her feet. Oswald's eyes looked down at her red knees from where she'd remained planted. His expression of content flickered to one of concern; but Sylvia seemed unaffected. She bowed at the waist and kissed his cheek; he turned his head, capturing her lips with his. The kiss had been brief, but it was soft, tender, and meaningful. When it naturally broke, Oswald caught her wrist and pulled her back for another one.

**Chapter 17: A Not-So-Nice Meeting**

In the weeks that followed, it was clear that Jerome Valeska's reign on television had left Gotham in fear. Crime was out of sorts, so to speak, and it was causing friction within the Five Families, and, as it was, within Oswald's empire. There was something charismatic in the way Jerome Valeska had caused Gotham to ripple in fear, but ultimately, it had become a pain in the ass.

Oswald held a meeting, and anyone who was someone, was mandated to attend.

Sylvia sat in her Queenie throne; she'd dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeve see-through black shirt over a navy-blue tank-top; the heel of her boot tapped the hardwood floors impatiently before she interlaced her fingers, and one leg crossed over the other. While the King stood in front of the fireplace, looking into the depths of its flames, those who were in attendance were shouting at one another in an effort to be heard. Sylvia sat in silence, her eyes glancing from one unrecognizable face to another, her expression lacking in amusement.

Her second-in-command, Tiffany Rubberdale, sat on her left, looking more or less confused and uneasy; large crowds, such as this one, made her nervous, and she was constantly unraveling what had originally been a whole napkin and now were pieces of what used to be scattered in front of her on the mahogany table. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her face was lavished with heavy navy-blue eyeliner and rouge; but no amount of makeup could cover her anxious expression.

Standing behind Sylvia was Mr. Bell, the cook as well as Sylvia's physical trainer. He stood beside Butch, and the two stocky bodyguards glanced at one another with stoic expressions before returning their bored gazes to the full house.

Some of the arguments ranged from disputes regarding turf and territory invasions, while others were petty, talking about little robberies that equated to no more than 10 dollars in profit. People were robbing from one another, and at this point, everyone seemed to be at everyone else's throats.

Tiffany glanced uncertainly at Sylvia, who remained stoic for the most part.

The Queen had little to say at these events. Instead, she preferred to listen to all the complaints and whining from the peanut gallery. Her amusement normally stemmed from the quarrelling, and seeing people riled up for no fucking reason. However, as this had continued to go on for longer than what she could tolerate, Sylvia lost interest an hour ago.

And apparently, so had Oswald, for he suddenly turned, grabbed the nearest shotgun, and pulled the trigger, towards the ceiling.

Everyone silenced as rubble of ceiling fell and littered the table with the debris.

"Gentlemen, ladies, others!" Oswald said. "Let us discuss the future with a little civility, shall we?"

He strolled past the seated individuals who glanced at each other precariously, and pointedly took a seat beside Sylvia, who smiled at him. He returned the simple gaze, addressing the group with his usual business-like tone. Sylvia grinned; she always loved it when he took command of the room.

"So," He began, "not one of you knows who orchestrated and/or executed the Arkham break-out? I find that hard to believe. I mean, the cops' only lead is a blind man, for god's sake. A BLIND MAN!" Everyone besides Sylvia, Butch, and Mr. Bell flinched.

"Then, who here is to be trusted? Because _someone_ knows."

A young man spoke from Tiffany's left: "Uh…well, we thought it was _you_."

"And why on Earth would I do that? We've never had it better. I gave you all the freedom in the world, and business boomed for all of us. A new generation. Then that ginger maniac had to spoil everything. Even now he is dead, the public is still terrified, business is in the can, and what are we doing? Fighting amongst ourselves."

Sylvia rested her face in the palm of her hand, watching him.

Oswald sighed, getting to his feet, and strolled to the front of the table, standing before the fireplace stating, "Is this how any of us wants to live? Squabbling, brawling, running, hiding? This city belongs to _us_ now. But kids, that brings responsibilities. We need to restore confidence in our brand if you will. We need discipline and unity, yes?"

There wasn't much of a unanimous agreement. But consent was hardly an option here.

"There will be no more chaos, no more gang wars, and no more blood in the streets, scaring decent folk. From now on," said Oswald coolly, "if you want to kill someone, blackmail, steal, or kidnap _anyone_ , **I** need to hear about it first. Understand?"

The same young man who'd spoken earlier raised his hand.

Oswald looked at him expectantly, if not irritably: "What?"

"What if you're not available?"

Following the question was a muttering of agreement.

"Then Sylvia," Oswald said, gesturing to her, "will be the second to notify. She is, after all, an extension of me."

The audience in the room glanced at her and she waved, smirking at Oswald.

"What if _neither_ of you are available?" The young man asked.

Oswald looked impatient, but Sylvia answered calmly, "Then it might be best to hold off on your plans for blackmailing, kidnapping, or any other devious items you have on your agenda, yeah?"

The man gulped when her eyes flashed dangerously, and he nodded quickly. Oswald rolled his eyes and dismissed the meeting. People were murmuring as they stood to leave; Sylvia looked at Tiffany, who glanced at her uncertainly.

"Go back to the club, Tiff," Sylvia said lightly.

"You don't want me to stay?"

"We're pretty much done here," Sylvia responded gently. "Plus, I'd like you to visit my mother-in-law. She's been expecting this recipe" (Sylvia withdrew an envelope from her pant pocket and handed it to Tiffany) "and I've been meaning to get it to her, but these meetings keep getting longer and longer."

"You don't want to take this yourself?"

Sylvia gave her a look.

"I don't mean any disrespect; but if you want to see her, then I say, maybe you could take it yourself. Like I said, ma'am, 'no disrespect.'"

"You have an odd way of wording things. But I get your meaning. I still have business to tend to while I am here…"

She lifted her gaze to see Oswald and Butch approaching a woman dressed in a black cocktail dress.

"Fine then," said Tiffany obediently. "Do you have a message you'd like to me tell her?"

"None that needs to be spoken."

"Yes, ma'am." Tiffany said; she made a small curtsy, and quickly made her way out the door.

In the meantime, Sylvia moved towards the direction in which the uninvited woman stood, speaking to Oswald and Butch.

" _Quite_ the King Solomon you are. You had them _nicely_ in line."

"Who are you?" Oswald questioned.

"Tabitha Galavan. My brother would very much like to meet you" (She glanced at Sylvia and Butch pointedly) " _Alone._ "

"What are you looking at me like that?" Butch responded defensively. "You don't know me."

"Relax, Butch," Oswald calmed. To Tabitha, he added, "He has issues. Bi-polar."

"She don't know me," Butch muttered, "I'm just saying."

Oswald inwardly rolled his eyes: "Your brother?"

"Theodore Galavan. There's a car waiting for you outside."

Tabitha turned to leave, but Sylvia stepped forward.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait. He's not going _anywhere_ alone with you."

Slowly, Tabitha turned on her heel as though she'd just been slapped with a book. Obviously, this woman was not used to hearing the word 'no'. Her eyes narrowed at Sylvia—apparently, this might have intimidated anyone else, but she remained unaffected.

Butch raised his eyebrows and he took a step back, to state that he wasn't about to be put in proximity between the two women.

"Sylvia, it's fine—" Oswald began.

" _No_ ," Sylvia interjected without breaking her glare, "It's _not_ fine."

Tabitha smirked.

"What do you think is going to happen, Mrs. Cobblepot?" She drawled. "It's a meeting. That's all."

"I _don't_ know what's going to happen, but there's no fucking way he's getting in a car with you— **alone**."

"Ooh," Tabitha cooed as she took a step towards Sylvia. "Aren't we jealous…"

"Call it what you want. Won't change whatever reality you're living in."

"Sylvia, don't be confrontational." Oswald chastised.

"I'm not!"

"Yeah," said Tabitha softly. "Don't be confrontational."

"Pipe down, lady—you haven't even _seen_ 'confrontational'," Sylvia threatened.

"Pretty sure you're the poster child for it."

Sylvia hissed but Oswald took her arm and pulled her back. Tabitha gave Sylvia a pointed look before she scoffed, "If you're going to be fussy, you might as well come too."

Tabitha walked out of the room; Oswald let Sylvia go.

"Calm down, Pigeon." Oswald advised as he and Sylvia walked down the hallway.

"She just bugs me."

"Your jealousy is showing."

"I still think we should have taken Butch with us," Sylvia muttered when she saw the limo parked outside.

"Consider yourself lucky that you were able to come at all."

"You'd have to be stark raving mad to think I'd let you out of my sight."

"Noted," Oswald returned. He opened the back door and allowed her inside first. When she crawled in, he followed suit.

Tabitha occupied the passenger seat, speaking in a low voice to the driver.

"Have you ever met this Theo Galavan?" Oswald asked as the limo began to move.

"Random billionaire showed up in Gotham City and no one knows a damn thing about him," said Sylvia quietly. "Seems as charming as they come."

Oswald looked at her, saying, "What do you mean 'charming'?"

Sylvia smirked: "Your jealousy is showing."

He remained on the defensive until she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Tabitha guided the Cobblepots through the mansion. While Oswald was content to follow her, Sylvia eyed the walls and the corridor with suspicion.

Forget the fact that she and Tabitha Galavan had already started off on the wrong foot. Forget the fact that this random encounter had only just _now_ happened now that Gotham City was on the bend for leadership now that Aubrey James was (allegedly) 'missing', and the Deputy Mayor had been recently murdered. Whether either of these freak incidents had been purely accidental or planned, Sylvia wasn't sure, but all of this seemed to be happening too quickly.

But that Tabitha Galavan…her very existence made Sylvia _ooze_ cattiness.

Oswald and Sylvia entered the room through which Tabitha suggested entry; Theodore Galavan, the charming Billionaire, sat on the edge of his desk, watching the news reporter speculate the possible candidates for the Mayoral position.

"Mr. Cobblepot," Theo said happily, sliding off the desk and sauntering forward to meet them halfway, "at last, we finally meet!"

"Call me 'Penguin'." Oswald countered politely.

"I thought I heard you hated that name."

"It grew on me."

Theo nodded: "'Penguin', it is. And you brought a plus-one!" He grinned broadly at Sylvia, holding out his hand; she looked at him trivially before offering her own, and he kissed the back of it. "Pleasure meeting you again, Mrs. Cobblepot."

"Hmm." Sylvia responded with a half-smile.

Tabitha interjected lightly, "She _insisted_ coming with."

"Well," said Theo, smiling at Sylvia, "I doubted she would hardly say 'no'. I find that it's a daunting task trying to separate the two of you, am I right?"

Oswald and Sylvia glanced at one another but exchanged smiles either way.

"Now, if that's not a look of True Love," said Theo light-heartedly, "I don't know what is. Please, have a seat…"

He gestured to two chairs; as he sat at his desk, the Cobblepots took their own.

"How's your head?" Oswald asked.

"Oh, healing. Thank you for asking," said Theo politely. "Gave me quite a scare."

"You were lucky to get out of that situation alive."

"Wasn't I just?"

Oswald chuckled at the notation. Sylvia remained quiet, observing Galavan for what he was displaying.

This man of social justice, the heroic display on national television. If this man did not become a candidate for the Mayoral position, Gotham's people would likely take up arms and rebel. The reporter described him as being 'good-looking', but perhaps Sylvia was biased; after all, her idea of 'attractive' was her husband, not a random billionaire who seemingly popped up out of the weeds like a daisy in the fall. But she could certainly see why women (and men) might think he was good-looking.

She hated to admit that his sister was a bit of a looker too. It must be the Galavan genes—to look so discernibly attractive.

"Was it luck?" Oswald said knowingly.

Theo allowed an impish smile to cross his face as he said, "You are a clever man. Good timing, dear!" Galavan called, looking over Sylvia and Oswald's shoulders. "Do you know each other?"

Oswald glanced back to see Barbara Kean strolling forward in pink silk pajamas, holding what appeared to be a martini in a triangular-shaped Champagne glass. She grinned beautifully at Oswald, saying, "We've met…"

She rubbed Sylvia's shoulder, even ran her fingers briefly through her ginger locks, saying sweetly, "Hey, Girlfriend. Long time, no see."

Sylvia watched Barbara stop in front of Tabitha, kiss her, and then lean over the table to kiss Theo. Sylvia's eyebrows raised in surprise, but smirking when noticing that the brother and sister were all too comfortable with it.

"The Arkham break-out," Oswald said, realizing the truth. "The GCPD massacre, Jerome and the Maniax…all you. Of course!"

Theo raised his hands: "Guilty! It was foolish of me to think I could trick the King of Gotham."

"Here…" Barbara said, pulling focus. She leaned forward and handed the alcoholic beverage to Oswald: "You'll need this more than me."

Oswald took it out of politeness but placed it on the desk surface.

"I'll go make another," said Barbara sweetly. She stopped by Sylvia's side; the latter looked up at her pointedly. "Do you want anything, Sweetness?"

"No…" Sylvia said slowly. "I'm just peachy."

"Of course, you are. See you later."

Like before, she rubbed her shoulder. Sylvia watched her leave and looked at Oswald, who was just as puzzled by that interaction. Tabitha and Theo seemed equally perplexed, and Sylvia smiled innocently.

"My sister tells me," Theo continued, "that you are doing a stellar job of organizing your new empire."

Oswald said modestly, "I try."

"Huh," Tabitha scoffed. "You're not the 'King of Gotham'. You're the 'King of Garbage'."

Sylvia narrowed her eyes at her, but Oswald responded first.

"A year ago, I held Fish Mooney's umbrella. Now she is dead by my hand. Along with Maroni. Falcone is in hiding, and his businesses are mine," said Oswald callously. " _They_ underestimated me. I suggest you don't make the _same mistake_."

Sylvia smirked when Tabitha didn't have a prepared comeback. However, Theo was quick to even the ground, to de-escalate the tension.

Standing to his feet, Theo said, "My sister is too blunt. But she is honest. And…she _is_ correct."

Sylvia stood as well, watching Theo move through the room and steadily step towards a table, on which a display sat, shrouded in mystery under a sheet of sorts. Oswald glanced at Sylvia, who followed Theo, her innate curiosity intrigued.

"The foundations of this city were laid 200 years ago," Theo led in his premise, "by some very dedicated people. Now, it's an old crumbling pigsty, full of human waste."

"Is it lonely up there on your pedestal, Mr. Galavan?"

Theo smirked at Sylvia, saying, "Your love for this city is admirable. I don't mean to offend."

Sylvia shrugged, unaffected.

"It's time to move to the future," He continued. "Cleaner…brighter…" (he pulled the sheet off the table, much to Sylvia's relief) "future…"

Unveiled, the table held what appeared to be a display of residential areas in gray blocks, and what idea Galavan had for Gotham was illuminated in luminous bright blue. It obviously caught Oswald's attention for he stood and walked towards the table, standing beside Sylvia, who admired the display.

"You know, when I was a kid," Sylvia reminisced, "My dad had a thing like this in the basement, but it was more detailed."

"When you were a kid, Gotham was likely the same. You're in your twenties, right?"

"I'm thirty."

"I stand corrected," said Theo, holding his hands up. To Oswald, he added kindly, "You're a lucky man."

"You want to smack my ass, while you're at it, Cupid?" Sylvia questioned smartly.

"I meant no offense," said Theo, smiling politely.

Oswald cleared his throat, and Sylvia looked at him expectantly. Oswald sent her a meaningful look, indicating for her not to be so quarrelsome. Sylvia shrugged, crossing her arms, and leaning her back against the wall.

"Those are residential areas," observed Oswald, pointing to the gray blocks. "So, thousands of homes would have to be destroyed, wouldn't they?"

"Yeah, so," Tabitha said carelessly from the sidelines.

Sylvia inwardly scoffed—she was starting to like this woman less, and less.

Theo said smoothly, "Here's the rub: in order to rebuild, I must first destroy. But I can't do that…I mean, watch the news; I'm a hero. But you have a certain _flair_ for such a task."

Sylvia noted that Oswald looked uncomfortable at that moment.

"You, Penguin," said Theo as he curved around the table. "You will be my destroyer."

Oswald chuckled, "Truly. I'm flattered. And thank you so much for thinking of me. But, my dear sir, you have me all wrong. I have _no_ flair for destruction. I'm a builder—a problem solver…"

"What about her?" Theo asked, glancing indicatively at Sylvia.

"What _about_ me?"

"Sylvia—" Oswald chastised.

"What?" She retorted. "He's talking about me like I'm not here. I'm standing _right_ here."

"Don't be an instigator—we just talked about this."

"I'm _not_ instigating anything. I'm proving a fucking point."

Theo interjected, "Sylvia, are _you_ a destroyer?"

"I can move mountains and hurl Earth towards the sun. But only for the **right** person."

Theo chuckled, "See, it's that brand of confidence—I _love_ it."

"And only for one person. Love to be loved, Mr. G, but I don't do anything without _his_ say-so." She pointed a thumb towards Oswald. "You want anything from me, then your business is with _him_."

Sensing he would get no further with Sylvia, Theo looked to Oswald, who considered the concept further: "A project like that would need the support of hundreds of city officials."

"Yes," agreed Theo. "Only the highest authority would be able to see it through correctly…say, a mayor with a landslide mandate."

Oswald tilted his head forward curiously: "But you are not a candidate."

"I soon will be! By popular demand. However, there _are_ a few who may put that goal in jeopardy," said Theo knowingly. As he did, Tabitha came over, holding a folder. "They might even stand a chance at winning. So, they're going to have to go."

Oswald glanced at the aforementioned folder, taking it from her as he repeated skeptically, "'Go'?"

"And, I'll need you to take a crack at me also— _and miss_. We can't have the people thinking that I orchestrated the demise of my fellow competitors, can we?"

Sylvia watched Oswald preview the folder, noting that the two candidates were the _only_ two candidates: Caulfield, the environmental activist, and Randall Hobbs, who seemed strong in his goals as well as his morals.

Oswald smiled, but not genuinely. He looked up at Theo, who was expecting a positive response. He didn't get one.

"That's very clever," said Oswald easily. "But, alas: I'm not your man." He threw the folder down with finality: " _You_ need an assassin. This is Gotham; you can find them listed in a phonebook, under 'A'."

He winked—cheeky as ever.

Sylvia smiled; she'd never been prouder of him. Then, her phone started buzzing. At first, she thought it might have been a notification: email, maybe, or someone on a 'sharing' binge on Facebook. However, when it continued, she pulled her phone out of the pocket of her jeans and saw that it was Tiffany calling.

_Why is she calling…_

Just as Oswald was about to leave, he turned on his heel when Theo said, "Just one moment, Mr. Penguin…."

Oswald glared at him; lips pressed sternly together. Losing his patience.

"I thought you were a man of vision," said Theo, so crestfallen. "Tabitha, would you get the remote? There's a reality show that she absolutely loves to watch. She is _addicted_!"

Sylvia glanced at the Galavan-duo momentarily before picking up on the third phone call.

"Tiffany, why—"

"THEY HAVE HER!" Tiffany bawled.

"What? —Tiffany, calm down, I can't…" Sylvia began, but Tiffany was in tears and shrieking something over the phone. "Tiffany, calm the fuck down—I can't understand a word you're trying to say!"

"They came—they have—I couldn't stop them—"

Sylvia heard the cries and stopped interrogating Tiffany. Tiffany's sobs didn't stop her from breathing, nor did they make her slowly look up at the television; instead, the sobs came from another source. Sylvia dropped the phone and slowly walked forward, realizing they came from the tv screen; she and Oswald peered at it with equal horror as Gertrud's terrified expression appeared, her wrist chained to the foot of the bed. A prisoner.

"Help me—I don't know nothing!" Gertrud cried.

"She's being dull right now…" Tabitha sighed disappointedly. "Sometimes, she'll cry and bang on the door."

Sylvia growled, and turned sharply towards Tabitha; Oswald caught both her arms and pulled her back. And while he thankfully didn't share in her impulsive act of violence (at least, at the moment), he held the same exact sentiment.

"You'll _pay_ for this," Oswald threatened.

" **That's** the spirit," Tabitha praised, grinning maliciously.

" _They_ die," said Theo icily. "Your mother lives."

The folder was handed to Oswald a second time. Oswald turned back at the TV, and his face contorted with both worry and rage. Sylvia gritted her teeth, glowering at the two.

"And," said Theo smoothly, "I'd try to refrain from telling this secret to your brother, Mrs. Cobblepot. I know how _close_ you and Detective Gordon are, but let me reassure you. If the police get ahold of this…" (He referred to the assassination plot, mainly, but also implying Gertrud's imprisonment) "I can _promise_ that your mother-in-law will meet the same sticky end."

Well, that blew _her_ plan out of the fucking water.

"Now," said Theo proudly. "If I were you two, I'd find a way to get rid of those two in that little envelope, so you can be a reunited family once more. I do _love_ family reunions."

Oswald growled inwardly, walking out of the room.

"Go on, little Fire Dancer," Tabitha whispered, smirking.

"Go deep throat a cactus," Sylvia hissed.

"SYLVIA!"

Tabitha and Theo smirked as Sylvia turned on her heel and stormed out of the room.

**Chapter 18: Protect This House**

It was Mr. Bell that came to pick up Sylvia and Oswald, as the two declined the limousine ride back to the mansion. While Oswald had been set a-frenzy, it was Sylvia's turn to be calm and somewhat level-headed, although the idea of murdering the fuck out of Theo and Tabitha Galavan had only crossed her mind 700 times on the ride home.

While Oswald furiously mumbled to himself, pacing back and forth in the meeting room, which was thankfully deserted, Sylvia stopped by the living room where Tiffany Rubberdale was lying on the couch; she sported a sprained wrist and a blow to the head, it appeared; Mr. Bell had taken a knee, placing her wrist in a brace.

Piling on the wrist injury was a black eye, and what appeared to be a bloody nose. Sylvia felt a pang of guilt for having sent Tiffany to Gertrude's apartment; had she gone herself, Tiffany might have been spared the pain and her mother-in-law would have had a chance of being protected.

Tiffany, after all, was not the violent type.

"Are you okay?" Sylvia asked softly.

Tiffany startled, seeing her. She was quick to stammer out a pool of apologies; Sylvia held up her hand, and Tiffany quickly silenced. Mr. Bell straightened, glancing stoically between the two women.

"Would you care for anything to eat or drink, Miss Rubberdale?" Mr. Bell asked politely.

"No, I'm fine," said Tiffany quietly.

He turned to Sylvia expectantly.

"Tea, please," Sylvia suggested.

"Yes, ma'am. Right away." Mr. Bell returned; he bowed his head respectfully and strolled away, making sure to glance back to see Tiffany lift her head so Sylvia sat on the cushion where her head had originally lain.

"I tried—" Tiffany began.

"Don't apologize," Sylvia said harshly.

Tiffany pressed her lips together tightly, uncertain as to what to say. It was clear that Sylvia was hurting; her anger was only a mask to cover the pain. Sending Tiffany had not been a mistake, but a miscalculation.

"How many?" Sylvia questioned as she stroked Tiffany's bangs off her head.

"Two." Tiffany squeaked. "Sylvia, I tried to—"

"Please, Tiff. Stop talking."

Once more, Tiffany tightly pressed her lips together. It was hard to unravel the startlingly calm puzzle that was Sylvia Cobblepot. Her soft, motherly strokes through Tiffany's hair, and the gentle cooing sounds were light compared to the cold tone in her voice.

"I don't blame you," Sylvia told Tiffany, looking down at her.

"They had guns…"

"I know."

"I'm afraid."

"Why?"

Tiffany whispered, "I fear he will blame me…" Her eyes darted towards the meeting room, where Penguin was raising a storm; things were being thrown and glasses were being shattered; Tiffany flinched at each abrasive sound.

"Don't worry about him," said Sylvia gently.

"I couldn't protect her. I'm so, _so_ sorry," Tiffany squeaked.

Sylvia patted her head, and said through a sad smile, "It wouldn't be fair of me to have asked you to. Don't worry about Oswald. Just lie here, and get some rest, okay?"

She eased off the cushion, gingerly lying Tiffany's head back down on the couch. Sylvia gathered an old quilt from the other loveseat and placed it over her, also taking an arm pillow and placing it underneath her feet. Tiffany quietly thanked her, and then closed her eyes. Sylvia looked at her for a moment, with an unblinking gaze; when Mr. Bell came back with a cup of tea, offering it to Sylvia, she took it wordlessly.

"Do you need anything else from me, milady?" Mr. Bell asked softly.

"Call Henry."

"Ma'am?"

Sylvia drank the full cup of tea, handing it back to Mr. Bell, stating, "He'll have no problem watching over her."

"Sylvia…"

"While you're at it, call Dagger and Chilly."

Mr. Bell stared at her.

"They're the bodyguards at the club," Sylvia answered his unspoken question. "Bring them here, and make sure _she_ " (she pointed at Tiffany) "doesn't get off the couch."

"Ma'am, perhaps you're overreacting…." Mr. Bell began, following Sylvia through the corridor; she was heading towards the kitchen, towards the backdoor. "If you take your guards from the club, who's to stop the rabble from robbing your—"

"My _family_ is being kidnapped right from underneath my fucking nose," Sylvia snapped, turning on him; he stopped walking the moment she wheeled around. "I need people here to protect this house I need my guards _here_ where the rest of my family is." (She meant Oswald, of course, but her eyes flickered to the couch where Tiffany was resting.) "Dagger and Chilly are more than capable of coming here—the club can fend for itself."

Mr. Bell frowned, saying, "I don't mean to question your rationale, Sylvia. But…your club _will_ be left unattended, and unguarded."

Sylvia's jaw tightened as she said darkly, "I'm heading there. The way I am feeling right now, Monsieur Bell, no mugger or burglar would _dare_ mess with me."

Mr. Bell's expression softened to one of pride.

"Why the fuck are you smiling at me?" Sylvia interrogated.

Mr. Bell said softly, "You are turning out to be one of my most gifted students I'd ever had the pleasure of mentoring, ma'am."

Sylvia startled, blinking twice before mustering a small, little smile.

"Thank you. Coming from you, that's nice…Um…" She cleared her throat, gesturing towards Tiffany. "Call Henry, please? And the others…"

"And if they don't answer the phone?"

"Dagger lives in the Narrows. Chilly likes to gamble; if he doesn't answer, he's probably in the alley behind the club, trying to make it in the high-roller life."

Sylvia started walking so Mr. Bell followed her, saying, "I thought he paid off his debt?"

Sylvia chuckled, " **I** paid off a few loan sharks who wanted him dead—if that's what you're asking."

"May ask I why? A man like him seems irredeemable, at best."

"The debt he owed the loan sharks, he now owes _me_ ," said Sylvia, grinning despite her current situation. "A man as roguish as he—he's a nice guy to have in my pocket."

"He's the Albino, right?"

"Yes, he would be the Albino gentleman. Dagger is normally in the alley, too, but he does a lot of the dirty work that some of the other waiters won't do for me."

"He likes to play the Bruiser card?"

"Get off your pedestal, Monsieur Bell. You know _you_ like shattering kneecaps just as much as the rest of them do."

Mr. Bell smiled guiltily.

She pulled on her leather jacket. Mr. Bell caught the cue; he left momentarily and came back with two guns and a blade; one weapon was placed in Sylvia's right jacket pocket; the other, between her back and the waistband of her jeans; the knife was strapped against the inside of her boot, just outside her right ankle.

Mr. Bell smirked saying, "One would think you were going to war."

"It's Gotham. We're _always_ at war."

"Touché, milady."

"Watch over Oswald, would you?"

"He doesn't know you're leaving?"

"As furious as he is, he likely won't even notice until he calms down. By then, I should have everything arranged."

"'Arranged'?" Mr. Bell repeated, concerned.

"I can't give you the specifics," said Sylvia sadly. "But…trust me…things are going to get a little bumpy. Oz and I might be in and out of the mansion, so don't pay any mind."

A beat dropped; Mr. Bell frowned: "Are you in trouble, Sylvia?"

"Something of that sort."

"The bad sort?" Mr. Bell said knowingly.

"The worst. The sort that if I tell you what is going on, people will die."

Mr. Bell raised a hand quickly and said understandingly, "No explanation needed. I trust your judgement."

"Thank you," said Sylvia gratefully.

"I'm here when you need anything from me," Mr. Bell reminded. "I'm not just your cook, after all."

Sylvia smiled. They bowed to each other—not just from cook to mistress, but also from sensei to student. With that stated, Sylvia left in her own car, heading to the club.

While Oswald would likely take care of Caulfield, Sylvia would coordinate the 'near miss' on Galavan's head. How tempting it would be just to take him out, right then and there. But Galavan had figured everything out, from blackmailing them with Gertrude's life, to figuring out just how and whom to go after.

Despite the appalling degree, Sylvia had to admire just how cunning the billionaire proved to be. A worthy adversary, indeed—and the idea of killing him would prove to be even sweeter.

Pulling up to _Lean on Vee's_ was the easiest part of running the club. She had her own parking space. As Sylvia closed her car door, she strode into the club, noticing that the atmosphere hadn't changed despite her absence.

The entertainment tonight were two old-timers, singing and playing instruments, reminiscent of an old rag-time band. The audience seemed appeased enough—even if they weren't, Sylvia could hardly care less.

Her presence wasn't made known, and she liked it that way. As she'd delegated, she met two women on the balcony; this area was the quietest, and least conspicuous. Standing and speaking to the two women was Butch, who'd come as she'd requested.

The first woman was Marcy; she was 25 years old; every month or so, she had a habit of changing her hair color, and it was mostly based on the mood of the given month. Two months ago, she had bright, neon-pink hair. Last month, it was tinted a deep, forest green. This month, she had a Cruella DeVil thing going on, one side was ebony, the other was a silvery white. Her make-up regularly matched her choice of hair color, so naturally, one eyelid was dark with black; the other eyelid was smoky white.

The second woman was named Freda; but everyone in the club, including Sylvia, called her 'Starbucks'. She always had a Starbucks cup in her hand—be it a coffee or tea. Like Sylvia, she was naturally redheaded, except she looked more carrot than ginger rooted. But it suited her with the freckles and the deep amber eyes; like a walking 18-year-old carrot, but with a Starbucks cup.

The two women regularly worked in Sylvia's club; like the rest of her employees, they were barmaids or sometimes the every-now-and-then waitress. The two were also a part of Sylvia's dance team, 'The Firebugs'. Today, they were going to become more.

Butch saw Sylvia before the two girls did, and he readily awaited her command. Sylvia noticed he appeared just as tense as she.

"Hi, Liv." Butch greeted.

At this point in time, she and Butch had been around each other enough that they were able to greet with half-open arms; a half-hug, in a way. She greeted the women in the same respect. Starbucks offered her a drink of her Frappuccino, to which Sylvia politely declined.

"How's the Boss?" Butch asked warily.

"Pissed off."

"Who put the pipe up his craw?" Marcy asked, glancing between Sylvia and Butch curiously.

Sylvia couldn't help but crack a smile. Marcy was crude, like her. And Sylvia enjoyed that kind of humor.

"Right now, that's irrelevant." Sylvia said dismissively.

"Need-to-know basis only, got it," Starbucks quipped.

"Who are we putting the screws to?" Marcy asked, chewing on a piece of gum. She smacked it with the back of her molars before blowing a larger-than-necessary bubble.

Sylvia leaned forward and popped it with her finger; the pink bubble gum lost its wind and covered Marcy's nose.

"Kindly refrain from that, would you?" Sylvia requested calmly. "My patience is teetering on a _very_ short wire right now, and that's just going to piss me off eventually. So, would you kindly?"

"Sorry," said Marcy; she leaned over the balcony, and spat it out; it landed in a stranger's cup of vodka, and Marcy giggled. "Now, _that_ should be a sport—gum roofies. Ha!"

Starbucks nudged Marcy in the ribs, pulling her back to the situation at hand. Butch and Sylvia exchanged exasperated glances.

"I need a van," said Sylvia, getting to the point. She looked at Butch: "I need you too."

"Well, never thought I'd hear those words—least of all, from you," Butch chuckled.

Marcy giggled, "I know right…" She then made kissy noises.

"Stop." Sylvia chastised.

"Sorry." Marcy said quickly.

"Galavan is getting decorated tomorrow. When he does, we're going to do a drive-by."

"And kill him—got it," Marcy said, clicking her tongue.

"No."

"No?" Butch, Marcy, and Starbucks spoke simultaneously.

Sylvia sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose between two fingers, saying, "No. But yes."

"I'm getting confused," Starbucks said quietly.

"Same," said Marcy.

"We have to make it look like a drive-by," said Sylvia.

"But you _don't_ want us to shoot him?" Marcy questioned, quirking an eyebrow. "Is this a test?"

"It's not a test."

"It sounds like a test."

"IT'S NOT!" Sylvia shouted, glaring at them.

Butch raised his eyebrows, surprised, while the girls glanced at one another, uncertain.

"Okay—it's not a test," said Marcy, hands raised in surrender. "But, Vee-Vee, you have to tell us, right? Why are we gonna near-miss Galavan—like, what's the point, you know?"

Sylvia looked at Butch incredulously; Butch returned the same expression. Sylvia looked at Marcy, who glanced at Starbucks.

"Are we seriously not gonna find out why?" Marcy asked innocently.

"You don't need to know why! You just need to do your fucking job, do it right, and move the fuck on."

Marcy took a step back.

"Okay," said Marcy submissively. "I got it."

"Good." Sylvia hissed. She turned to Butch: " _You_ know what to do, right?"

"Shoot and miss, got it."

"At least someone is with the program. Fuck me…" Sylvia mumbled, rolling her eyes exasperatedly at the ceiling. She walked off, while Marcy and Starbucks looked after her.

"She's a little stressed, isn't she?" Starbucks asked quietly.

"That's an understatement," Butch muttered, watching Sylvia shout at the single audience member who was heckling the rag-time band.

"YOU THINK YOU CAN PLAY BETTER THAN THEM? NO? THEN SIT THE FUCK DOWN OR GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CLUB!" Sylvia was shouting.

Marcy said quietly, "I still don't understand why we would pretend to shoot Galavan. I mean, what's he done, other than protect Gotham?"

Butch patted Marcy and Starbucks on the shoulders, saying, "You may never know. Just do what the Queen says, 'kay?"

Marcy shrugged saying, "Queenie's in charge."

"Queenie's angry," said Starbucks, shrugging as she sipped her frappe, glancing down to see Sylvia kick the heckler out of the club.

**Chapter 19: Safe**

Sylvia drove home later, the same night. Her head was pounding—not just from the stress of the day, but for all the effort of maintaining that level of calm that was expected of her on the daily basis in the club.

She didn't get out of the car immediately, even as she turned off the engine and pulled the key out of the ignition. For just a minute, she leaned back in her seat, and looked out the windshield.

 _How did it come to this_?

The thought repeatedly echoed in her mind—not just now—but during times when every last ounce of her will power was ready to bend. She questioned her own resolve, her own strength.

What leader hasn't, though?

Her mother-in-law—the closest thing she had ever had to a mother figure—was trapped somewhere in Gotham…maybe not even in Gotham, maybe outside. The point of the matter was that neither she nor Oswald knew. Somewhere, the little woman was sitting in a cell, in a cage, staring out the door, wondering why on Earth she'd been forced into that corner in the first place?

What had her Oswald done? What kind of trouble was he in?

A mother's thought, surely.

Sylvia closed her eyes. Her throat clenched; her eyelids were heavy. The stifling sound in her throat was more painful to quiet than allowing the soft whimper to leave her lips.

If she'd been with her, would Sylvia's own mother be in the same situation? Maybe. Maybe not. But for certain, Sylvia felt guilty for Gertrud's current predicament.

What if _she_ had gone to the apartment, in Tiffany's stead? Would she have protected her, saved her? Maybe not. But there would have been a better chance at it than when Tiffany had gone. Tiffany wasn't confrontational, not the violent type. For fuck's sake, it had taken Sylvia's own intervention to separate Tiffany from her abusive ex-fiancé.

Sylvia, however, had fended off several men when Fish Mooney and Butch had been after Barbara Kean. With two men, Sylvia would've had them easily on their knees, begging to be spared—sure, she'd have done so because Gertrud would have been present, but that wasn't really the point, was it?

"Fuck…" Sylvia mumbled. She rubbed her face with her palms. " _Fuck_ …"

She looked at her hands, having forgotten she'd worn foundation today. The oily make-up residue was on her fingers, and she sighed, quietly laughing to herself. Of all the things to whine about!

And her ring…the wedding ring. She caressed the small little diamond, embedded in the silver band.

Fuck her own predicament. Fuck her own self-pity. Gertrud was held captive—and Oswald was in emotional turmoil. It was _his_ mother, after all—not hers!

"Oh, Mama Gertrud," Sylvia muttered, tilting her head back against the seat. "What the fuck are we going to do…"

After a few more minutes had passed, she slowly opened the car door and stepped out. A gun was placed against her neck; Sylvia jumped, looking quickly to the side to see Mr. Bell standing there, eying her suspiciously. A flashlight lifted and blinded her in the face, and Sylvia cursed.

Mr. Bell quickly apologized.

"What the _fuck_ , man!" Sylvia snapped, rubbing her eyes.

"I'm terribly sorry," said Mr. Bell, more relieved than apologetic. "I saw a car pull up—and I didn't realize it was you."

"Fuck me…" She uttered, rubbing her eyelids. "What kind of battery do you have in that fucking torch? You damn near burned my goddamn retinas!"

"Sorry, again," said Mr. Bell, smiling apologetically. "I was able to get ahold of Dagger and…and 'Chilly'. God, why does a man go by that name?"

Sylvia walked towards the mansion, escorted by Mr. Bell who put away his gun.

"He says it's because he's got ice in his veins, I don't fucking know," said Sylvia nonchalantly.

"Quite a lyrical one, isn't he.”?

"Quite."

When she opened the door, she saw her requested guests sitting in the living room, all of whom appeared well at home.

There was Tiffany, who sat on one cushion, with Henry sitting on the arm of the couch. Beside Tiffany sat Marcy and Starbucks, both of whom looked just as uncertain of their presence as they did now. Since Marcy and Starbucks were undeniably one person, they only occupied one cushion, leaving the last to be occupied by Josh, who was naturally stone-silent.

Dagger stood behind the couch; in comparison to size, he was stockier built than Butch. Big-boned, and muscular, Dagger had the arms the size of Sylvia's waist, and a thick neck; he regularly wore turtlenecks, mostly neutral colors. Today, he wore black befitting, really. His eyes held something of a dead pan, most of his face was pretty stoic. Dagger was less of a dagger; instead, he was more comparable to a fucking tank.

Chilly stood next to him.

He was, indeed, Albino. Paler-than-thou white skin, and he had amber eyes with a reddish tint. He wore a large ring on his right hand, which actually occupied three of his fingers; across his fist read 'Chilly'. Because…you know…he had 'ice in his veins'.

These eight people that sat in the living room, including Mr. Bell, were Sylvia's Total Force, so to speak. She stood before them, looking at them all. They awaited her next command.

"I don't expect you all to know what's going on," said Sylvia calmly. "For the record, I want to tell you but long story short of it—I can't. You've all worked for me for nearly a year, at the least, right?"

They all agreed unanimously.

"So, please try to understand my predicament… _our_ predicament".

Sylvia acknowledged Oswald, who stood in the doorway, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, glancing at all of them curiously.

Marcy raised a hand.

"Yes?" Sylvia called on her.

"Will we ever know why this is happening? Actually… _what_ is happening?" She said gingerly. "Are you in some sort of trouble, Vee-Vee?"

"Something like that. But it's not for you to know."

"I can work with that," said Marcy, holding a hand up quickly in any case Sylvia snapped at her. "But, if it's anyone's opinion, I think we should stock up on hand grenades."

"Yeah," said Henry. "Call the fucking Calvary, you know."

"Calvary?" Chilly said, making the people on the couch jump from his grating voice. "We _are_ the fucking Calvary. Say the word, Sylvia—we'll nail these fucking bastards to the fucking wall, you know!"

"Yeah," Dagger said sarcastically. "Just like you 'nailed' those fucking loan sharks, right?"

"Yeah. Leave it up to her to save your fucking ass."

"Shut up, Henry—" Starbucks hissed. "If it wasn't for her, you know, _you_ would still be slinging dog shit off the rich folks' lawns."

"Shut up, _Freda_ ," Henry snapped. "If it wasn't for her, _you_ would still be prostating your body all over the fucking place—you know, because the only door you could ever open are your legs—"

Starbucks stood to her feet, saying angrily, "For your information, fucker, the correct term is 'prostituting'; 'prostating' isn't a fucking word, and 'prostate' is what's in your fucking ass, you fucking idiot."

"Still, the only door you can open is your legs!"

"Fuck you," Starbucks growled.

"Yeah," Marcy backed her up, "Fuck you, you fucking asshole." To Tiffany, she said coldly, "How can you even _date_ that fucking kid?"

"Fuck you," Tiffany snarled.

"Fuck me?" Marcy responded icily. "Fuck **you**!"

" **SHUT UP**!" Sylvia shouted.

Everyone piped down and looked at her.

"I get it," said Sylvia. "We have a clash of personalities, here. Okay? I got it. But…look, we're family, and right now, that's all we have. Jerome Valeska and the Maniax have pretty much desecrated what we've been trying to build, and until we get things back in line, we need to follow order."

"Well," said Dagger. "So far, the GCPD have that."

"Pardon?"

"They got a new captain. Narrows peeps tell me they got some former Marine working for them."

"Fuck the marines," Henry muttered.

"No," Marcy giggled. " _Fuck_ Marines—all bronzy, and muscular—goddamn, I'd sit on a Marine's face any day of the week…"

"Thank you," Sylvia interjected before things started taking a detour. "Look, guys. Seriously. I'm asking you—begging you—please, let us stick together. Okay? Thank you, Dagger, for informing the group about the GCPD…. although, I'm pretty sure I'd find out about it from Jim…"

"Speaking of Jim—," Marcy began mischievously.

"Oh god," Sylvia said quickly, "Please don't tell me your sexual fantasies about my brother."

Marcy shrugged and leaned back in the couch saying, "Fine…but oh my lawwwwwd…"

Sylvia rubbed her face with both hands.

"Stick together," She emphasized. "That's the point of this meeting, okay? Stick together, look after each other. Don't do anything brash."

"Sure," said Dagger, nodding.

"Sure, sure," said Chilly.

"Agreed," said Marcy and Starbucks.

"Fine," said Henry, shrugging carelessly.

"Yes, ma'am," said Mr. Bell, smiling.

"Of course," said Tiffany. "But I can't do anything anyway—I'm kinda bed-ridden to this couch, you know."

"Right now," Sylvia told all of them. "You all have one duty for tonight: Protect each other."

Everyone nodded and they were dismissed. Per Sylvia's permission, Tiffany—with Henry's help—limped off the couch and headed towards one of the guest bedrooms. Sylvia watched them all depart, looking after them with a second glance before plopping down on the couch they'd all just previously occupied. She crossed her arms and placed them over her head, sighing deeply.

"If they're all protecting one another, who is protecting you?"

Sylvia lowered her arms, seeing Oswald fully enter the room after hearing the speech. He looked just as exhausted, if not more. Sylvia watched him approach; he made a gesture for her to raise her head; in doing so, he sat down, and she rested her head in his lap.

"You are," She answered his question. "You'll be protecting me."

"I can try."

"We'll get through this, babe."

Oswald looked unconvinced, but smiled at her, regardless.

"They respect you," Oswald pointed out, looking to see Dagger and Chilly debating who would guard the front door and who'd take the back in the kitchen.

"Respect and fear are easily mistaken for one another," said Sylvia quietly, looking up at him.

He brushed her bangs off her forehead, similar to how Sylvia had done with Tiffany's.

"They're scared of _me_ ," said Oswald, smirking at her. "They're scared of you too, but I think there's more to it than that."

He continued to stroke her hair back, combing it across his lap. Sylvia smiled; it was not just comforting her, but it was also a comfort to him. Whatever happened—good or bad—they were one another's constant, the definite.

"Mmm," She hummed back at him, closing her eyes. "You're putting me to sleep, Ozzie."

"Where did you run off to?"

Sylvia opened her eyes, looking up at him: "You noticed, did you?"

"I noticed the moment you'd left."

"I went to the club."

"For what reason?"

"To check up on things, mostly. Marcy and Freda are taking the van; Butch will be the one to pretend-shoot at Galavan."

Oswald sighed, obviously afflicted. His lips pressed tightly together, forming a thin line. Worry reflected in his eyes; Sylvia lifted her hand, caressing his tightened jaw. He glanced down at her.

"Kiss me." Sylvia whispered.

"Pigeon—"

"Just do it."

Oswald leaned forward and kissed her briefly. She returned it, catching him with her arm around his neck so he wouldn't withdraw too quickly.

"You're terrified," Sylvia uttered softly. "I can see it…but you have every reason to be."

"Hiding it from you is the hardest thing I've ever had to do."

"You don't have to pretend around me," Sylvia reminded. She nuzzled his cheek. "With me, you're safe."

"I thought _I_ was protecting _you_."

"A Queen always protects her King. The only thing I learned from playing chess."

"I didn't know you played."

"I don't," Sylvia snorted, grinning widely. "I'd normally take the Knight pieces and pretend they were grazing in a field. Black stallions, white mares…"

"The moment we get the opportunity, we're taking down Galavan and his sister."

"You take Theo, if I get the sister," Sylvia whispered impishly.

"How would you do it?"

"I'd learn her fears. I'd learn everything about her. And I'd slowly torture her in ways that she could not even possibly imagine. Slowly. Intimately." She lifted her head to kiss Oswald's bottom lip, smirking up at him. "It wouldn't be quick. It'd last for _days_."

Oswald smirked at her: "It's a wonder how often I forget this sadistic half of you."

"That's because my other half is so fucking cute."

"You're not wrong," He admitted, grinning back at her, despite his anxiety.

"Kiss me again."

This time, Oswald didn't protest.

* * *

Author's Note: Part 2 and 3 are coming. :) 


	4. Exchange of Power (Part 2 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of 3 of Third Installment: Exchange of Power. 
> 
> Highlights: Oswald settles into his role as the King of Gotham as he and Sylvia tie the knot; Oswald experiences a new level of submission; Victor and Sylvia go on a contract together; With the wedding underway, Jim and Sylvia's relationship is tested as well as her new marriage when Galavan and his sister make their debut; In his new transformation, Edward Nygma reveals previously hidden feelings towards Sylvia; and Jim and Oswald agree to a pact that will protect Sylvia from being put in Black Gate. 
> 
> Warning: This sequel has minor elements of non-con (mentioned at beginning of applicable chapters), major character death, lots of angst, and oodles of smut (dom/sub context).

**Chapter 20: Depression Is A Prick**

The plan to hit (and miss) Galavan went off without a hitch. By the afternoon, in hour's record time, the reporters were all over the news, talking about how after Gotham's filth had a go at him, it was _then_ that he decided to throw his hat into the ring. Sylvia sat on the couch, watching the news, wanting to vomit. In her hand, she held a banana daiquiri, mixed and flavored by Mr. Bell, who stood behind her and the couch, watching the news with equal disgust.

Sylvia flipped the channel to something less morbid.

"He's a bit of a character, isn't he," said Mr. Bell, curving around the couch to sit beside Sylvia.

"That's a polite way of saying it."

"A fucking cockwaffle, more like…" said Marcy, rounding the corner and walking into the living room, holding a glass of champagne.

Sylvia snorted, "That's…a little better."

Marcy sat on the other side of Sylvia, offering two Advil PMs. Instead, Sylvia pushed her hand away.

"You're not sleeping, Vee-Vee."

"I can't sleep." Sylvia returned, glowering at her. "Besides, mixing medication and liquor—not the brightest idea in the history of mankind, just so you know."

"I guess it wouldn't matter that I'm just trying to help?" She said, crossing her legs on the couch.

Sylvia stood, letting out a scathing noise, before walking away and into her and Oswald's bedroom, closing and locking the door. Mr. Bell looked after the direction in which she'd gone while Marcy rolled her eyes.

"I _am_ trying to help— **you** can see that, can't you?" Marcy asked.

"More than anyone," Mr. Bell reassured. "But Sylvia…she isn't one who asks or accepts help too easily."

"Perhaps I should have just dropped the PM in her drink."

"Well, no—but I like your way of thinking," said Mr. Bell, grinning broadly.

In the darkness that was the bedroom, Sylvia lied on her stomach, smothering her face in the pillows. When she slowly inhaled, a sense of calm came over her: Oswald's cologne. She moved to his side of the bed and sighed deeply—his scent.

Depression was not a single emotion, but a mixture. But it hit her like a ton of bricks as she lied in bed, on her back, staring up at the seemingly non-existent but ever so present black hole that was the darkness of the ceiling.

Even the sunset, which normally granted her some type of happiness and solace, failed to relieve her of the dread.

What if—despite everything she and Oswald had done—Galavan and his sister didn't give up Gertrude. They could kill Caulfield (as Oswald was doing tonight), and they could come after Hobbs—but what if they did their part, and the Galavans didn't honor theirs.

She knew that's how it would work out. The villains of this piece would not be so honorable. During a time, at least when Falcone and Maroni were running things, the thieves and mobsters had a fucking code. People like Galavan had no sense of the word 'honor'.

Never once did Sylvia think that things would have been better under Falcone. While it was nice not having Oswald pressed under the man's thumb, she wondered if maybe she and Oswald were running things all wrong.

Self-doubt was a fucking prick of a monster.

"Sylvia…"

That was Tiffany outside the door, knocking lightly.

Sylvia closed her eyes, turning to her side. She didn't want to hear the apologies again. She was so fucking tired of hearing people say they were sorry. Sorry for _what_? They hadn't orchestrated Gertrude's kidnapping…they hadn't become responsible for the fucking train wreck that was her and Oswald's life presently!

"Sylvia."

"Go. Away." She groaned.

"You have to eat something," said Tiffany gingerly from behind the door. She tried jiggling the handle—it was a good thing Sylvia had thought to lock it. "Sylvia, please…"

"I said 'go away'! For fuck's sake, I just want to be left alone!"

Footsteps shuffled from the door, and she sighed in exasperation. She slipped into sleep, and then she woke up to the soft knocking on the door once more.

"I said 'go away'!"

"Pigeon…"

The soft tone might as well had been a call. Sylvia bit her lip, compromising—she wouldn't see anyone but she wanted more than anything to see Oswald. It was a pain just to climb out of the bed, even more to walk towards the door. Her entire body ached, despite not having done anything all day.

When she opened the door, he was there in the limelight. He'd changed his clothes, which probably had been splattered with blood. Now, he wore his familiar black pajamas. His hair was matted, wet—looked like he'd just taken a shower.

"How'd it go?"

"One down," Oswald replied.

"One to go," Sylvia finished.

Oswald closed the door; he joined her in the bed, lifting up the covers. Sylvia pulled him to her, knowing he secretly preferred to be the little spoon. Especially in such a time as this. His back pressed against her chest; she nuzzled his neck.

"How do you want to get rid of Hobbs?" Sylvia asked.

"I don't know yet."

"I can do it."

"No."

"I'll take Victor with me," Sylvia offered. "Besides, Hobbs is, like, fifty. He's got twenty years on me, easy."

"He'll have men."

"I have _me_."

"You're not going after him."

"But—"

Oswald turned, full body and all. In the darkness, one couldn't really see anything. But as their eyes had adjusted, Sylvia could see his expression without having to completely see his face. His body had tensed against hers, and now, he held her hand in almost a vice-like grip.

"I'm not sending you." Oswald said coldly.

"Fine, then." Sylvia whispered. "Fine. But…just so you know…I'm not _just_ your wife, you know."

"I know." He pulled her to him, his arms wrapped around her body.

He said nothing more about the subject.

She slipped her hand underneath his shirt, and placed her palm over his skin, where underneath his heart raced. Just the thought of Sylvia confronting the mayoral candidate had Oswald jumpy and fleeting.

Galavan had his mother. That was enough to worry about. But the thought of Sylvia being gunned down by Hobbs' men was just too much to bear.

"Ozzie." Sylvia whispered, breaking the silence.

"Yes?"

"I love you, sweetheart."

Oswald kissed her forehead, saying, "I love you too, honey."

She nuzzled his neck, his skin radiating enough heat to warm them both. And somehow, just having that, was enough for Sylvia to fall back to sleep.

**Chapter 21: A Mother's Flock**

Sylvia sat in the backseat of the four-seater car. Butch was in the driver's seat; Oswald, in the passenger's. For the longest time, they were silent, that was until Butch sighed, glancing at his watch before pointing to the leveled building some twenty yards away.

"Hobbs' campaign office," said Butch, "is the entire second floor." He glanced at Oswald: "Are you sure about this?"

"Don't worry, I've got it under control."

Butch glanced back at Sylvia, who intentionally avoided his gaze as she became more attentive towards the rainy weather. She was primarily concerned with waiting for the second car to pull up. Butch gave her a once-over, furrowing his eyebrows at the both of them before he finally sighed.

"Okay, you two, you have _got_ to tell me what the hell is going on," said Butch, looking at both of them. "I _know_ I have to do **whatever** you say, but at least tell me _why_ we are doing it."

Oswald looked at him after a brief pause: "They have my mother, Butch."

 _Immediate_ confusion.

"Who?"

"Galavan and his sister. They have her. They're making me do this."

"Holy smokes," Butch whispered, shaking his head. "We've gotta find your mom."

"If they find out we're looking, they'll hurt her."

"Don't worry. We'll find her."

Oswald nodded, welcoming that smallest amount of comfort. A moment of silence passed. Sylvia leaned forward in between them, looking at Butch.

"For what it's worth, Butchy," She said smoothly, "I can definitely see why Fish kept you around."

He glanced at her, saying, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're an alright guy," She said, patting him on the shoulder. "New respect for you, Boo."

Butch gave her a weird look, turning to Oswald as if requesting further explanation on the fact but Oswald gave him none. Another car pulled up.

Oswald glanced at Sylvia, giving the cue.

"Be right back," She said quickly, getting out of the car.

"Where is _she_ going?"

"She's going to talk to Victor," said Oswald calmly.

"What's there to talk about? She's not going in there with him, is she?"

"Of course not!"

"Good…" Butch muttered, shaking his head.

Oswald sent him a look.

"I can pretty much handle finding your mom," Butch said, letting out a sigh of relief. "If Galavan and his sister ever got a hold of Sylvia, we'd have one hell of a war on our hands—talk about a helluva massacre."

Oswald shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I can only imagine what she must be feeling," said Butch, glancing at the rearview mirror where Victor, in all of his black-suited glory, stood speaking to Sylvia; they were leaned against the hood of Victor's car.

"Meaning?"

"Sylvia's a primal woman. She's not just protective of you. Anyone messes with any of the sheep of her flock, and you know they've got another thing coming! No, thank you!"

Oswald smiled in spite of himself.

"Second floor," Victor said calmly, glancing at the building. "All of the second floor?"

"Yes."

"Mind telling me why we're going after this Randall guy again?"

"Do you need to know the sordid details?" Sylvia questioned, placing her hands on her hips.

"No, but it's always good to know—you know, in any case I get arrested by the GCPD," said Victor seriously.

A beat passed and Sylvia and Victor were laughing.

"Are you doing all right?" Victor asked, looking her over.

"That's a bit of a loaded question."

The slightest softening of his expression reflected all the concern possible.

Sylvia glared at the building: "Get in. And kill this guy."

"Any method you'd prefer?"

"Quick would be my preference, but you do your own thing, Victor." Sylvia responded, looking at him. "You know me, though. I'm a 'knife' kinda gal, not your typical gun-toting lady."

"Says the one who has two of them," said Victor, eying the Glock in her jacket and the one that was surely strapped between her back and waistband; after all, he'd been the one to spin her up on the all-too-awesome shooting styles (not that she ever used them).

"Stop flirting."

"Well, what can I say? I miss those days when you and I would go on a man-hunt."

"Reminisce another time."

"Sure thing. I'll take care of him. You have nothing to worry about."

"Thanks." Sylvia said, smiling happily at him. She started back to the car.

"Liv."

She looked at Victor: "What?"

"If you need anything from me, you need only ask," He said, nodding towards her respectfully.

"You're way too professional to be a hitman, you know that?"

"Noted," Victor sighed, smirking when she rolled her eyes back at him.

Sylvia climbed into the passenger seat, closing the door on her way in. Oswald and Butch looked at her, even as she buckled her seat belt.

"What?" Sylvia questioned.

"You and Victor are a little chummy these days."

"Stand down," Sylvia said sardonically. "It's nothing."

Butch looked at Oswald, more expectant of a response. Instead, Oswald said, "They're like an office couple. It doesn't mean anything."

Seeing that neither had a problem with this, Butch figured he didn't either. They drove off while Victor moved forward.

**Chapter 22: Jim and Sylvia Argue Again**

Sylvia moved through the mansion, her bare feet were soft, padded footsteps throughout. Oswald sat in the meeting room at the head of the table, on his throne, eyes looking at the table, but his mind was pre-occupied.

She placed a glass of water in front of him, and a package of two Alka-Seltzers. Oswald looked at her wordlessly, but was thankful when she didn't warrant any verbal response. She caressed his face in the palm of her hand, and kissed his forehead. And that was enough.

"Hey, man, you can't go in there!" Henry's voice was heard before Detective Jim Gordon entered the room.

"You killed Caulfield," Jim stated with what appeared to be calm. "We have a witness."

Oswald glanced at him but said nothing.

"And the attempt on Galavan, was that you too!"

"Not now," Oswald warned.

"And Hobbs!" Jim continued, ignoring him. "You sent Zsasz there!"

Oswald restrained to snap, instead said firmly, "It's _complicated_. Okay?"

"What does it profit you to mess with the election? You have your own sordid empire to look after." He glared at Sylvia as well: "You _both_ do."

Patiently, Oswald said, "Walk away, Jim. Let me be."

But Jim seemed to be in antagonizing mood as he insisted, "The GCPD has new leadership…"

"James." Sylvia cautioned.

Jim continued without interruption, "No more deals, no more favors. If they find out you're behind the attacks, we will come after you and—"

"ROUSING SPEECH!" Oswald shouted, standing up suddenly. "Really. Goosebumps!"

Jim stared at him, affronted. Like he wasn't just berating him.

"But," said Oswald shakily, "You came here _alone_ , Jim. No warrant, no cuffs, and no back-up. And why? Because you would hate to have your new captain find out about how you gunned down Ogden Barker in cold blood. Over a debt! A debt to _me_!"

Jim frowned deeply, saying, "He was trying to kill me."

"Where are your _witnesses_? And _just_ the day before, I suppose you did _not_ ask me to run Commissioner Loeb out of town so that you can get your old job back!"

Jim glared. Oswald's gaze didn't falter. Jim inwardly growled, walking away. He stopped at the end of the table, and turned.

"I'll face whatever's coming to me."

"As will I."

Sylvia glanced between them; Jim left the room, and Oswald sat down, looking more upset than when the day had started out. Sylvia let out a harsh sigh before leaving the room—this time, Oswald didn't even try to stop her.

" _James_!"

Jim kept walking, through the living room, even where Dagger, Chilly, Henry, and Mr. Bell remained vigil. They watched Sylvia storm after him. Jim was already halfway down the sidewalk before she caught his arm, roughly spinning him around.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" Sylvia shouted.

"What do you mean 'what the fuck'?" Jim questioned incredulously.

"You just think you can storm in and out as you goddam please? No 'hello', no 'good-bye'. You just do whatever you fucking want?"

"He killed Caulfield," Jim said, pointing sharply at the mansion.

"I can neither confirm nor deny—"

"Oh my god, Vee! You're seriously going to protect him—after all this time!"

"YES!" Sylvia responded angrily. "I am going to protect him after all this time. He's my fucking husband. Why don't you—for once—start acting like my fucking brother."

"We have a witness. The GCPD will be coming after him."

"Tell me something I don't fucking know," Sylvia countered. "But we are not even talking about Caulfield or anyone for that matter. You just _barged_ into my fucking home, interrogated my husband, and then left without so much as a 'hello' or 'good-bye'. Can't you see where that might be a _little_ fucked up?"

Jim rolled his eyes, and started leaving.

"Don't you fucking roll your eyes at me, that's fucking rude!"

Jim turned around, looking at her: "What the hell do you want from me, Vee? What do you want?"

"I've not heard from you. In days. It's like nothing between us has changed—no matter what has happened in the past—you still only come to my home when you want something."

"I didn't want anything from you—"

"Oh, you didn't? You stormed inside _my_ home, shouted at _my_ husband, and then stormed off when he didn't give you what _you_ wanted. Which is what? What were you wanting, huh? A confession? And if that's what you did want, anything he said to you might as well have been said under duress—"

"—How would you even know—"

"We had the same fucking dad, Jim! And you're a fucking cop—you should know what admissible testimony is allowed in court. Shit taken from duress isn't one of them. And your fucking interrogation skills are lacking!"

Jim said with attempted calm, "Vee, I'm serious. The GCPD has new leadership—"

"Yeah, I know. Led by the former Marine, Captain Nathaniel Barnes. Color me fucking shocked. Let me guess: he's an idealist, much like you once were, before you became jaded and cynical. And a fucking hypocrite."

"I'm not a hypocrite—"

"—And now you're a liar—"

"—Hell, can we have one interaction that does not involve us screaming at each other!"

"That depends," said Sylvia, lowering her voice to a normal level. "How much longer are you going to keep making yourself look like the victim when, really, you're a constant problem for me?"

Jim looked taken aback: "We hardly talk—so how am I problem for you?"

Sylvia gesticulated violently towards the mansion, her sarcastic expression more than enough to point out the obvious as to what just happened.

"I came to warn him."

"You fucking _shouted_ at him!"

"Because he shouted at me—"

"—He told you to leave him alone, but you kept on bothering him—"

"—Oh my god, don't you mother him—"

"—I'm not fucking mothering him—"

Jim threw his hands up in the air, and let out a frustrated sigh: "Again, Vee— _What do you want from me_!"

"I want you to either be a part of my family, or not at all."

Jim stared at her and said coolly, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're a cop one day, and my brother the next. It's hard to tell _just_ exactly what you are to me," said Sylvia coldly. "You want to be a cop—fine. But the next time you want to barge into my home and verbally attack my family, you best have a signed warrant."

"Sylvia—"

"I'm fucking serious, James. As a motherfucking heart attack."

"Those people," said Jim, pointing at the house that contained what he only saw were a group of criminals, "are not your family. They're thieves, and murderers, and thugs—"

"And what are you, huh!" Sylvia snapped. "You're not a thug yourself? You killed Barker. You broke into a place that was not your own—and it's not the first time. You've sought out extra help from the Kingpin so you could blackmail Commissioner Loeb with his own fucking daughter. That's murder, thievery, and thuggish behavior _right_ there."

"Sylvia, that's different."

"Oh! I see, so when it excels _your_ agenda, it's justice. But when it somehow vindicates _my_ agenda, it's a crime."

"I can't believe we're having this same argument again."

"Well, we won't have to have this argument again. You want to see me next time, or interrogate my household, you're more than welcome to—bring a warrant, bring your fucking second-in-command, Harvey Bullock, and—hell—maybe even bring some back-up. Because the next time you decide to storm inside and attack my family, I'll fucking attack you on principle." Sylvia warned.

Jim stared at her. She waited for his response, but he had none. At least, not at the time. She started walking away, but Jim stepped forward. She turned around, expectantly.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What do you mean 'what the hell is wrong'. I just told you."

"You're acting…different."

"Who knows—maybe the criminal life is finally starting to take a toll on me, or maybe I'm just really fucking fed up with your hypocrisy," said Sylvia, shrugging her shoulders. "It could be a bunch of things."

Jim looked at her, like _really_ looked at her. He took her hand, pulling her towards him. She stared at him, looking at him oddly. What the fuck was he doing?

"You're in trouble. Aren't you?"

"Even if I was," said Sylvia darkly, "You wouldn't be able to help me."

She jerked her hand away from him.

"If you're in trouble," said Jim earnestly, "I need to know."

Sylvia bit her lip. There, he was. _That_ was her brother. How many times had they found themselves in this very situation back when they were kids?

"Tell me," Jim insisted. "Someone is threatening you—I can tell by your face, I'm right. Tell me who."

"It figures. The one time you want to be my brother is the one time I have to accept you for what you truly are."

"Which is what?" Jim said uncertainly.

"A cop." She said meekly.

She touched his shoulder, patting it gently.

"Vee—"

"Go home, Jimmy," Sylvia said quietly. "Just go home."

Seeing Sylvia's wall barrier for what it was and knowing there was no way of breaking it currently, Jim surrendered; he got into his car, and pulled out of the driveway.

**Chapter 23: Queenie's Party And A House-Call**

"Fully stocked on all commodities, and we're three months' ahead of bills," Tiffany reported as she flipped the pages of her clipboard. "Valeska's wreak of havoc may have put a dent in our system, but I think we'll make an impressive comeback."

Sylvia glanced at her distractedly.

The two women were sitting on the balcony of _Lean on Vee's,_ a single table between club, for the moment, was vacant, all except for the servers, Henry and Josh, who were making their money's worth as a few regular patrons entered and ordered the menu. There was some mild celebration happening for someone who had made Partner at some grand, but unnamed, business. The rendition of the celebration was making money for the club so Sylvia intentionally ignored the ruckus that came with it.

She and Tiffany were going over reports. While Tiffany had nothing bad to report, Sylvia's mouth hadn't even twitched upwards. Tiffany placed the clipboard softly on the table, and looked at her boss.

"You're not pleased," said Tiffany, giving her a once-over. "Did I do something wrong?"

"You've not done anything wrong."

"Are you not happy with the direction the club is going?"

"The direction of the club is fine," said Sylvia distractedly.

She solemnly took a drink of her martini and placed it on the napkin on which it had sat previously; the drink had sat so long now, the napkin was becoming more of a soggy surface.

Tiffany licked her lips nervously. Sylvia's standoffishness made her more unnerved than anything else that had happened in the past. No one need ask her why she was so rigid—her mother-in-law was being held hostage by a man who had the outward appearance of a hero, but he was something not many would dare to trifle with. A woman of action as she proved to be in the past, Sylvia was hankering to shoot Galavan in the balls.

Sylvia's aggressive impulses were being stifled not just by Galavan, but also by Penguin, who emphasized caution when dealing with him.

Standoffishness had become an understatement; instead, Tiffany sensed hostility.

"Do you still blame me for what happened?" She asked meekly.

Sylvia's eyes darted from the brash display of celebration taking place below them to Tiffany; her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and a hard smile replaced the pursing lips.

"No. I don't."

"If I was stronger, I could have saved her."

"You're physically weak. You have the upper body strength of a meerkat. There was no way you could have saved both Gertrud and yourself, and if I am being brutally honest: It wasn't your _place_ to save her."

"I understand what you're going through, Liv—"

" _Do_ you?" Sylvia responded irritably.

Tiffany hesitated.

"Look, I tried my best, Liv. I _really_ did. But, it's like you said: they're bigger than me, and you know I'm not the confrontational type..."

Sylvia stood to her feet, drank the rest of the martini, and sat it on the table, hard. Hard enough that it made Tiffany flinch as though she'd thrown a book at her.

"You're fishing for sympathy. Gertrud had been taken by _Galavan's_ men. I don't blame you for what happened and I never did. _I_ keep telling you it's not your fault. But you keep apologizing—and it's really starting to piss me off."

Tiffany winced at the harsh tone.

"I'm sorry they beat the shit out of you. But this," Sylvia said, gesturing to the entire club in reference, "is not about you. It was about sending a message, and they've sent it. You feel guilty that this happened, I get it. But I'm telling you to forget about it. You won't—or maybe, you can't. Because deep down, you're certain you _could_ have done something to protect Gertrud. And maybe that's why you're constantly telling me you're sorry. Whatever the reason for feeling it was your fault, I don't care. Just stop apologizing for something that isn't your fault."

"I'm just saying—"

"I know what you're saying. You've already said it," said Sylvia coldly. "A thousand times, you've said it. _You're sorry._ Fine. Good. Now, would you _please_ stop thinking you are the one to blame. If anyone is to blame, it's _Galavan_. And believe me. When I get the chance, I will rip out his spine and shove it in a place the sun doesn't shine."

Tiffany leaned forward and opened her mouth to say something, to say _anything_ , but nothing came out. Sylvia held up a hand; she didn't want to hear it.

When the crowd below started getting loud again, Sylvia let out a frustrated sigh; she leaned over the railing.

"Get out!" Sylvia bellowed.

Henry and Josh, who had been serving the gentlemen another round of drinks, glanced up at her curiously; the guests chuckled at one another.

"EVERYONE OUT!" Sylvia growled.

Seeing that she was serious, the gentlemen quickly excused themselves and left the vicinity without another word (at least to her face). Henry, Josh, and Tiffany looked at Sylvia from their respective positions and Sylvia ignored them all, walking down the stairs and sitting on a pew at the bar counter.

"Having a rough day?" Henry asked sardonically.

"Shut up."

Tiffany walked down the stairs and joined them at the bar counter. She didn't say anything though. Josh looked ready to help in any way he can, standing beside Sylvia like he was her own personal umbrella boy. Sylvia glanced at the lot before requesting a second martini; Henry placed a glass down and took the booze from the top shelf, making her request quickly and placed it before her on the counter.

"We know you're upset about Gertrud," Tiffany consoled. "But, Liv—"

"I know. I shouldn't take it out on you." Sylvia said quickly, closing her eyes in an attempt to calm herself down.

Josh and Henry glanced at each other, but neither had any readable expressions. While Tiffany had survived the electric shock of being reprimanded, there was still a part of her that wanted to seek out Sylvia's forgiveness. Tiffany sat beside her boss, and placed a hand gently on Sylvia's.

Sylvia glanced at it curiously.

"You're not alone. You're not alone in this. You have _us_."

"Yeah," agreed Henry. "Just tell us what to do to make you happy, and you bet your fine ass, we'll be on top of it...on top of your command, not...not on top of your ass."

Tiffany gave him a look and Henry was starting to turn red.

"Well, you know what I mean," Henry said quickly. "Like, on top of whatever you want us to do, not on top of you...or-or your ass. Oh my god, it's getting worse."

"Just shush," said Tiffany.

"No problem," said Henry, clearing his throat after.

Sylvia allowed herself a small smile. Josh placed an abnormally large hand on her shoulder and she looked at him quizzically.

"If you want us to kidnap anyone, I know a guy that's pretty good at doing things like that," said Josh, grinning.

"Fuck hiring outside the House," said Henry, crossing his arms and leaning over the counter. "We can do it ourselves."

"You're too loud. If we sneak into anyone's homes, we're gonna need quieter people."

"I can do that, no problem. I've been doing that for a long time. Haven't I, Sweet Cheeks?" Henry said, suave. (He referred to Tiffany, who rolled her eyes.) "We've got this thing down to a science."

"I hope you're referring to the kidnapping," muttered Josh. "I don't wanna know what happens under the bed."

"You mean 'under the sheets'," Tiffany corrected.

Josh turned a shade of beet red.

"Then again," said Henry roguishly, "We've not tried it under the bed."

The door opened and Sylvia glanced from the trio to see Marcy and Freda (AKA Starbucks) coming through them. Marcy wore her usual black-and-white hair job, and with it, she had on a red shirt, black leggings, and white sandals; her make-up matched her hair, except for the bright orange lipstick. Starbucks was on her left-hand side, wearing the same clothes as Marcy. As always, she had a Frappe in her hand.

"What'd you say to those grumpy men, Vee-Vee?" Marcy asked Sylvia, throwing her thumb indicatively over her shoulder. "They were saying some libel-shit about you."

"Sylvia threw them out of the club for being too loud. They _were_ being loud."

Marcy quirked an eyebrow: "The dickmuffins are _always_ loud. What's the difference?"

Starbucks offered everyone a taste of her Frappe; everyone declined.

"You kicked people out a lot earlier than usual," said Marcy as she plopped down on a pew, crossing her legs like an Indian. "What's gotten you so wrapped up in the heat and fire?"

Josh answered: "She's upset about Gertrud."

"Just rain some Haytorade," said Marcy, wiggling her fingers and raising them above her head. "Show the _Man_ that you can't be pushed around. Give that dick-little-licker a taste of his piss."

"I have _no_ idea what you just said, but I like your enthusiasm."

"Yeah," said Starbucks slowly, "There's no fucking way I'm getting close to that man's pecker to taste his piss."

"I don't think she meant it literally," Tiffany pointed out.

Marcy smirked saying, "I don't know, guys. That Galavan is pretty cute."

Sylvia glared at her.

"But he's also fucking evil," said Marcy quickly to elude Sylvia's stink eye. "This whole game he's got is pretty sick—and sick in a disgusting way, not in the 'awesome' way."

"We should light his stuff on fire," said Josh.

Henry smirked saying, "For once, we're in agreement."

"Then we'll be on his bad side," Tiffany reminded. "He has one of our own, remember?"

"We find Gertrud," said Henry, "We get her out of...fuck...wherever he has her hidden, and then we nail his bitch-ass."

"Yeah!" Marcy said. "We'll bring the screws to him."

"Have you all been smoking dope?" said Tiffany incredulously. "Where's all this energy coming from? You weren't this enthusiastic when I was telling you all to clean the tables..."

"That's chore stuff," said Henry slyly. "Babe, this is like the real adult shit."

"Well, this _real_ adult," said Tiffany coolly, "is telling you _real_ teenagers to calm the fuck down."

Henry hopped onto the counter, shouting, "I CAN'T BE TAMED, MOTHER FUCKERS!"

"Get off the counter," Sylvia ordered.

"Yes, ma'am," said Henry, sitting down next to Tiffany, who chuckled at his immediate submission.

"We _do_ need to find her," Josh said softly.

Sylvia turned to him, saying, "And how do you suppose we do that exactly?"

"One of us gets close to him," said Marcy, smirking. " _I_ can probably do that."

"None of us can do that," said Starbucks.

"Girl, you have _no_ faith."

"I'm just saying," said Starbucks, "Galavan has seen us. He _knows_ us."

Henry scoffed, "He doesn't know _shit_ about me."

"He knows you're loyal to Sylvia," said Starbucks smartly. "And he knows all of us wouldn't betray her just to get on his 'good side'. Even if we could get away with it, who's to say how long it would be before we could find Gertrud."

"We could get the girl," said Tiffany, getting to her feet. "We can get the sister."

"She's just as dangerous as Galavan," said Marcy. "But...better-looking though."

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

"Well, you just did. That was a response."

"I meant a real response."

" _That_ **was** a real response."

Henry stood in front of Sylvia and Tiffany, who glanced at him curiously when he looked more mischievous than usual.

"If we get Tabitha," said Henry sneakily, "We can get Galavan. Galavan's got a weakness—all humans do!"

"What's yours?" Tiffany asked slyly.

"You, babe."

"Ugh, gag me," Marcy and Starbucks muttered.

"But really," said Henry who clearly enjoyed being in the spotlight. "We're trying to get Gertrud back with us, right? What we gotta do is find Galavan's weakness…"

"The guy right? Not the girl..." Marcy interjected, earning a glare from Henry. She raised her hands defensively: "Just wanted to be clear."

"What if he doesn't have a weakness?" Starbucks also interrupted, looking slightly upset. "He's got his 'T's crossed and his 'I's dotted—it's not like he hasn't thought of this plan, step-by-step."

" _So we'll have to be just as cunning_ ," Henry snapped, glaring at them. "Can't I complete a thought for like a _second_ before you all interrupt me?"

"How do we grab the sister?" questioned Josh. "It's not like she's going to walk in here alone..."

The doors opened a second time. This time, entering was Tabitha Galavan, in the flesh. She wore black leather jeans and a cut-off black top. In her hand, she carried an envelope. As she strutted inside, the heels of her boots struck the linoleum, heard even above the soothing tones of the violinists playing on stage. Sylvia eyed her dangerously as Tabitha approached her.

" **Wow** ," Tabitha breathed, looking around the club. "This place is really jumping, isn't it?"

"Well," said Henry, "You should have seen it earlier. It was 'jumping', like a fucking firecracker parade, but Queenie told them all to scram."

Tabitha chuckled, "Wow, ' _Queenie_ ', huh? You've really got _them_ trained, haven't you?"

"What do you want," Sylvia ordered, glowering at her.

Tabitha stepped forward, perhaps to get a little closer to her, but Henry, Josh, Marcy, Starbucks, and Tiffany all advanced to form a circle in front of Sylvia.

"Wow," Tabitha uttered even more sarcastically. "I stand corrected. You've _really_ got them trained."

Most of them disbanded behind her; however, Tiffany and Josh remained on the defense.

"It's fine," Sylvia calmed.

Josh looked at her reproachfully, but seeing Sylvia's softened expression, he retreated to her side. Tiffany glared angrily at Tabitha, who smirked at this sign of overprotectiveness.

"You're looking a lot better," Tabitha complimented. "I bet you've not taken a beating like that since you were with Drifas, huh, little kitty-cat?"

Tiffany glared at her, still. But her lip started to tremble.

"Lucky, Queenie was here to save you, huh?" Tabitha said knowingly. "Too bad it had to take a murder to get you out of that broken relationship. That's a crime shame."

Tiffany squeaked a sound of contempt but nothing more came out. One too many lashes, and she was hiding behind Sylvia, looking defeated. Henry patted her head, whispering sweet nothings in her ear.

"Tell me what you want, or get the fuck out of my club," Sylvia said darkly.

Tabitha sharply held out an envelope and Sylvia took it from her.

"You're going to kidnap someone. A man," She said smoothly. "His name is Bunderslaw—he's the garbage man for Wayne Enterprises. Anything bad that the Wayne Enterprises has done, he knows about it."

"I didn't ask what you needed him for. I could care less."

"Well, you should probably start caring a little more, Because, you know….we have your sweet, little mother-in-law in our hands. No thanks to _her_ ," Tabitha said with a nasty smile as she gesticulated to Tiffany, who bowed her head in shame. "So, you might want to practice just a _little_ bit of candor."

"Or what?" Sylvia questioned, looking up at her. "You'll take one of my staff? You'll poison my food?" (She stood to her feet, and placed the envelope on the counter.) "Or maybe, you'll even try to take me as well, just to make this harder for Penguin."

"I wouldn't rule that out."

"You're not taking me anywhere. And if you think you can take me, let's get it over with. You can try it now."

"Your pesky urchins will try to save you."

"Probably." Sylvia said, shrugging. "I wouldn't rule that out."

Tabitha seemed to consider it. She sized up the situation, but after a moment, she shrugged carelessly and said, "Nah. That'd be too easy."

"Anything else? Kidnapping Bunderslaw shouldn't be too hard."

"He has a lot of guards."

"Even better. My people like a challenge."

Tabitha frowned. She watched Sylvia, like a hawk eying a competitive predator. What she saw was not weakness; instead, there was something more.

"You know," said Tabitha softly. "Before I go, I need to ask."

"Ask what?"

"What's your prior relationship between you and Barbara?"

"We were friends," said Sylvia nonchalantly, "I'm guessing we still are."

"Nothing else?"

"Are we feeling a little jealous, Tabitha?"

"Not at all," she said. "I just wanted to know. See ya later, _Queenie_."

As she walked away, Marcy stepped forward and spat on the ground after her: "Bitch!"

Tiffany said quietly, "How does she know what happened with Burke? No one knows."

Sylvia looked at her pointedly saying, "Burke Drifas was a known man in the Underworld. He had ties to a lot of businesses. When he disappeared off the face of the earth, people noticed."

"You didn't tell the police anything, did you?" Tiffany asked.

"I didn't say a word," said Sylvia, crossing her heart with a finger. "But that doesn't mean the police didn't suspect something."

"I always wondered about that," Henry said curiously. "How is it that you were never arrested if people like the Galavans know it was murder."

Tiffany whispered, "His body was fished out of the Gotham Lake."

"'Beaten up and bloodied'," Marcy recollected. "Per the news, anyway."

Her eyes widened and she turned to Sylvia saying, "Wait, that was _you_?"

Sylvia shrugged admittedly, smiling a little when Marcy and Starbucks quickly hugged her. Sylvia's breath caught until they relinquished their grip and stepped back to admire their heroine.

"What the fuck?" Henry muttered.

"We used to work for that deadbeat bag of bones," said Marcy, disgusted. "You wanna know a bad excuse for a boss—ugh! The nerve of that meatbag. What a _dick_."

Tiffany stared at the two girls, saying, "You used to work for him?"

"We were his bag girls, I guess. Would you say that, Freda?"

"Sounds about right, Marcy," said Starbucks, shrugging. "Nothing sordid, like being a whore, but whenever he needed some escorts to show he had money and shit, he pretty much had us."

"Why did he use you two?" Tiffany questioned. "He had a fiancée back home."

Marcy said with total disregard, "He said his lady back home was a loser."

Tiffany scowled, crossing her arms: "I'm so glad he's dead."

"Yeah, babe—you deserve better anyway," Henry said, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Soft-spoken, Josh said, "So how does Galavan know about the murder if no one said anything?"

Tiffany muttered, "GCPD has a lot of rats."

"Yeah," said Starbucks, "Maybe one of them talked."

"The police didn't have any hard evidence," Sylvia reminded.

"That's never stopped them," Tiffany responded. "They can plant evidence, and everything. I've seen it happen. Well, then again, that was back when Detective Flass had his hand in everything."

"And on every _one,_ " added Marcy, rolling her eyes. "What a fucking asshat."

"I thought he went to jail," said Starbucks.

"Nope. Judge freed him. Fucking **dick**."

"Flass was better than a few of the other cops," Starbucks said, patting Marcy on the back as though to calm down her counterpart. "If anything, Dougherty was worse."

"Who's Dougherty?" Henry questioned.

They all took a seat at the counter; opposite of one another to share a beer. Sylvia declined, still on her second martini. Henry poured a round.

"Dougherty was another dick cop," said Marcy, answering Henry. "Sweet on the outside—"

"Misogynist on the inside," Starbucks finished. "I've not seen him around though, now that I think about it."

"Why would you?" Marcy said rhetorically.

"Sometimes, he stops cars and asks the women out."

"He was going out with the bookie in GCPD. He'd have no reason to ask out another broad."

"Would it shock you if I said the guy was a lousy boyfriend?" Starbucks responded, rolling her eyes. "Ain't no man like that gonna be in a committed relationship. I feel bad for the girl, then. What's her name again?"

"Kristen Kringle," Sylvia answered.

"She's that good-looking redhead, right?" asked Marcy.

Starbucks glanced at her saying, "You think _everyone_ is good-looking."

"Well, she was even _better_ looking." Marcy said defensively, shrugging a shoulder. "Smart _and_ sexy. Dougherty's got a nice thing going on, you know, if it weren't for the fact he's a cheating, misogynistic asshole."

"She's not dating him anymore," Sylvia said calmly.

"How do you know?" Marcy asked.

"She's dating Ed Nygma."

" _Who_?" Marcy, Starbucks, and Tiffany responded simultaneously.

"Forensics guy."

"I don't know him." Marcy muttered.

"I don't either," Starbucks replied.

Henry and Josh glanced at each other; Henry voiced pointedly, "You, women, talk an awful lot."

"Well," said Tiffany, "it's nice for someone else to do the talking."

Henry cleared his throat and took a longer-than-needed gulp from his beer. Josh declined the beer, pushing it away from him, and, instead, took out a bottle of soda from the refrigerator. He respectfully asked if Sylvia's right-hand side was taken and when she said 'no', he happily took that seat.

He looked more content than ever to sit next to her.

"Where's Dougherty now?" Marcy asked, glancing at anyone who would know the answer.

"Well," said Sylvia smoothly, "I don't know. I don't care. He's dead to me."

"Like dead-dead?" Marcy asked.

"No," said Henry. "She means like 'He's nothing to me'. _That_ kind of dead. Right, Liv? Am I right?"

Sylvia shrugged: "Sure. We can say that."

Henry chuckled with pride because, like any other time, he was able to decipher what Sylvia meant. Sylvia smirked to herself, though. Only she and Edward Nygma knew the real reason why no one had seen Officer Dougherty in a long while.

Sylvia held the envelope in hand, containing the picture of Bunderslaw as well as his most frequented locations. He was at home, most likely. Still, he had plenty of guards; she didn't want to chance the rest of her party ending up like Tiffany. While their enthusiasm was inspiring, none of them were prepared physically to deal with not just Bunderslaw, but his men included.

She visited the home of an old friend, knocking on the door.

"It's open!" Victor called out.

Sylvia opened it gingerly; she wore black leather pants and a red-tank top. She wore combat boots, and while they were charming and dangerous in appearance, they didn't make a single noise as she strode through the house, noticing that for a professional hitman with exquisite tastes, Victor Zsasz didn't really keep much in the house.

In this respect, Sylvia liked him more for his non-materialistic way of living.

"Victor?"

"Kitchen."

"Why am I not surprised..." She stopped in the doorway, seeing Victor sitting on the counter, eating a ham salad sandwich.

What stopped Sylvia in her tracks was his current appearance. All the times she had spent with him, she'd never seen Victor wear anything more than his all-black suit, including a vest that carried two of his dangerous babies. In this moment, Sylvia saw that he was half-naked, wearing black pajama bottoms, and nothing else. His bare feet swayed carelessly; and his upper half was lean and muscular.

It wasn't often that he was shot in the line of duty, but after having gone after Randall Hobbs and having been interrupted by the GCPD, Victor had come out alive, but with a bullet wound. The wound in his shoulder caught her attention and she noticed that it had not been cared for at all. Whether that was due to Victor's carelessness or perhaps he'd never been shot often to be knowledgeable in aftercare, Sylvia wasn't sure, but she noticed it regardless.

"Come in," said Victor, gesturing her forward. "You know it's rude to stand in doorways."

"You look well," said Sylvia, gesturing to him.

"I've been better." He returned, looking her up and down. " _You_ look good though."

"Mm. I've _felt_ better."

Victor didn't grin, but the corners of his jaw twitched upwards. He finished eating his sandwich and then hopped off the counter.

"You're shot," said Sylvia, looking at his shoulder.

"You can see. Congratulations."

"Sit." Sylvia said, gesturing to the table.

"It's a flesh wound."

"It's infected."

"Again, congratulations."

"Shut up, Victor, and sit _down_ ," said Sylvia coolly. "Have you even _tried_ to clean it?"

"Nope. There's a pint of ice cream in the freezer. Care to get it for me since you _insist_ that I remain seated."

Sylvia scoffed, retracting a small smile. She opened the freezer and pulled out the ice cream, and placed a spoon in front of him. He thanked her wordlessly before opening the top and digging the steel utensil into the otherwise rock-hard dairy treat.

"Where's your first-aid kit?"

"Bathroom."

"Any particular place you put it?"

"Cabinet," Victor responded with a mouth full of ice cream.

Sylvia walked through the house. She noticed he didn't care for much lighting; aside from the few motion sensor night-lights that came to life as she passed them, there were not many bulbs in place. As she walked through the corridor, she felt with her hands along the walls, successfully finding the bathroom door. Opening it inwardly, she noticed first-hand that the sink and toilet were cleaned to pristine.

A professional hitman who prided himself on cleanliness...and yet did not think to clean his own bullet wound.

Sylvia opened the cabinet, took the unopened, unused First Aid kit. It was a small traveler-sized box with all the necessities inside, including gauze, band-aids (both large and small),; packaged towelettes with rubbing alcohol; a small bottle of antibacterial ointment; tweezers, nail clippers, and—if one required more extensive care—lining and a needle for sewing. As she strode through the hall back to the kitchen, she heard Victor's noise of content as he ate the ice cream.

"Randall Hobbs is still alive," said Sylvia conversationally as she walked into the kitchen.

"For now."

"I'm surprised those young police officers got the best of you."

Victor's expression hardened.

Sylvia said pointedly, "I expected more out of a hitman like yourself."

"Trust me; it surprised me more than you." Victor said coolly. "Why are you here?"

"Well, first things first. I wanted to make sure you were okay." Sylvia said lightly. "We're work-married after all, and I can't imagine what I would do if my work hubby was shot in the line of duty...and died from a fucking bacterial infection. After all the crap you've gone through, I wouldn't expect you to die from something as small as this—look at this, you didn't even _wash_ it."

"Didn't hurt that bad," said Victor stubbornly.

"Do you have a brighter source of light?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to fix you up."

"There's a switch beside the door." Victor answered defiantly. "But I can assure you, I'm fine."

"I don't care if you told me you're feeling ten out of ten," said Sylvia sternly. "You need to get this fixed. And since I know you won't go to the doctor—" ("You've got that right.") — "You will have to settle for me."

"I wouldn't call it 'settling'."

"Stop flirting with me." Sylvia responded, although she allowed a small smile to tweak the corner of her mouth.

She turned on the light next to the door. Both she and Victor winced at the light as though they had been borrowed from the sun for eons. Their eyes adjusted after a minute, and Sylvia went to work.

Sylvia asked, "What's your plan regarding Randall Hobbs?"

"I'll get him. Don't you worry."

"I'm not worried."

"You _sound_ worried."

"Well, I'm not."

"You're worried about _something_."

Sylvia scoffed, "Well, aren't we all..." She ripped open a towelette soaked in rubbing alcohol. "If I wasn't worried, I wouldn't be human."

"You and Penguin have me going after a mayoral candidate. And you make a personal visit to me for this next job you have in mind. What _is_ it?"

"What is what?"

"What's bothering you?"

"Nothing is bothering me."

"Is it regarding the thing you can't tell me about?" Victor asked knowingly. He didn't even wince when the towelette rubbed over his wound; he seemed unaffected by it in general.

"No."

"You're lying to me."

"I'm not lying."

"You're lying again."

Sylvia gave him a look, saying, "Would it suffice to say that I have had better days?"

"I've known you for a while now, Liv. Whatever this thing is that has you worried, it's something big. I know it. Your whole party at the club knows it."

"They know what's happening..."

"Oh, so they get to know but _I'm_ the one being left in the dark?"

Sylvia said softly, "You're a neutral party, Victor. What if I tell you what's happening, and then Galavan decides to hire you for your services. And he just so happens to ask you what you know about what's happening? Then I'm in the doghouse, for sure..."

Victor took her hand and removed it from his person, looking at her seriously.

"I wouldn't work for that pipsqueak."

Sylvia smiled saying, "I know."

"So, tell me what this is about."

" _Victor_."

"I'm shot, okay? It's the least you can do." Victor returned calmly.

Sylvia surrendered.

"He has my mother-in-law," She confided. "Galavan has my mother-in-law and I don't where. He's using her to make Oswald and I do this stuff for him. Caulfield, Hobbs—soon to be Bunderslaw..."

"Who's Bunderslaw?"

"Someone who is connected to the Wayne Enterprises..."

"Do you need help getting this guy?"

Sylvia let out a breathy laugh saying, "Why do you think I came to you?"

Victor said disdainfully, "Why don't we go after Galavan?"

"We can't. He has Gertrud."

"Find out where she is—"

"You don't think we've not tried?" Sylvia questioned harshly, dropping the items in her hand. "The closer we get, the worse _he_ gets. And Gertrud wouldn't even be in this fucking situation if _I_ had been the one to go to her. Instead, _like an idiot_ , I sent Tiffany."

Victor quirked an eyebrow saying, "She's the woman you saved from that two-timing businessman, right? The one you had dumped in the lake?"

"The same," Sylvia groaned, rubbing her forehead. She sat beside Victor, saying, "It's a fucking mess. I'm trying to keep it together, but I'm slowly losing my fucking mind. Him and that fucking _sister_ of his."

"Have you told any of this to Penguin?"

"Told him what?"

Victor gestured to her general mood: "You blame Rubberdale for this mess. Why don't you do something about it?"

"It's not her," said Sylvia tiredly. "It's not her fault—she didn't know they'd come after Gertrud. She can't even fend off a fucking fish if it meant her life."

"If it was her life at stake, maybe she'd have been able to," said Victor, putting the spoon back in the bowl for another taste.

Sylvia looked at him: "What do you mean?"

"It's amazing how different these people will react when they find out their lives are in danger. And even more amusing when they realize that it's not _their_ lives that are on the line." Victor reminded. "Remember all those trips we used to take, Liv?"

"What are you getting at?"

Victor leaned back in his chair.

"If Rubberdale saw that Gertia—"

"—Gertrud—"

"Was in trouble," Victor continued, "She wouldn't have reacted at all because she's thinking about her own personal safety. But if it had been her own life at stake, Rubberdale might have fought harder."

Sylvia frowned saying, "You're telling me that Tiffany didn't do what she could to protect Gertrud because it wasn't _her_ that Galavan wanted?"

Victor winked at her.

"That's unthinkable," Sylvia said darkly.

"But it's a possibility. Let me ask you this. Does Tiffany keep asking for your forgiveness?"

"Yes."

"Even though you've told her _multiple_ times to let it go?"

"Yes."

Victor said slyly, "That certainly sheds some light on a few things, doesn't it, Liv?"

"She's a faithful servant, Victor."

"And she's human," He said pointedly. "Not a lot of people are willing to die for other people—this is Gotham."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Would you be willing to die for another person?"

"If it suits me," said Victor smoothly.

"Even if it was me?"

"I walked you down that carpet, gave you away on your wedding day. I like you, Liv. Love you even, as a friend. But there's not a single soul in this world I would die for." Victor said coolly.

"Well, at least you're honest."

She placed the ointment on his wound and Victor smirked at her.

"You're still going to bother with this thing?" He asked incredulously, glancing at her fingers as she taped a rectangle of gauze over his shoulder.

"Well, you may not die for me. But you're willing to take a bullet to get things done and I say that's a lot more than what most people in Gotham would do."

"You're not bad for a woman, work-wife."

"You're not much of an asshole either, work-hubby. Are you going to eat that entire thing of ice cream?"

"What if I do?"

"Just saying, that's a lot of calories."

"What a typical wife," muttered Victor. "So, what are we doing about Bunderslaw? What's the plan?"

"Get him, get out."

"That's a basic plan."

"Got a better one?"

"I said it was 'basic'. I didn't say I didn't like it," said Victor, smirking at her. "Guy like him may have one or two guards."

"If they're anything like what Loeb had in his house, I think it's fair to say we will be fine."

"He might have a few guns lying around. A man like him has some interesting tastes."

"I give you permission to take whatever you want from this house of his. After Galavan does whatever he wants with him, I doubt he'll be coming home anyway." Sylvia stated. She clapped him on the other shoulder, and chirped, "Like a brand new penny!"

"Thanks, Liv."

"You're welcome. Did you want me to come along for this one, or—"

"Nope," said Victor, getting to his feet. "This will be an in-and-out job. If you come with me, it'll be about twenty minutes when really, it should only take five."

"That's a bit sexist."

"Well, am I wrong?"

"No." Sylvia said. "You're not. But still...If you need back-up, you know where to find me. This not-killing-anyone thing is really starting to frazzle me."

Victor, who stood a great foot taller than she, graced his hand behind her head and kissed her forehead. She looked up at him curiously and he smiled back at her. And that was all the more that needed to be said.

**Chapter 24: Motherly Advice**

Going back to the Falcone Mansion after Victor had successfully killed Randall Hobbs on his way back from kidnapping Bunderslaw, Sylvia walked into the living room of the mansion. She was tired, but content. Worrying about Gertrud was exhausting in nature, but learning that everything had been taken care of (at least on _their_ end) was something of a small victory. It wasn't until she'd come fully into the living room that she saw that a man was lying on the couch, beaten and bloodied.

Sympathy pulled at her heart strings. It was Stanley. At least, she _thought_ it was him. He was covered in so much blood, it was hard to tell.

People who worked for Penguin 'technically' worked for Sylvia, and vice versa. Distinguishing which characters were loyal to either entity wasn't really the issue; however, those who directly associated themselves under Penguin's rule always seemed to end up on the bloodier end of a one-sided conversation. And Stanley, unfortunately, had become the recipient of such a raw debate.

Stanley was like any other guard to the Mansion. He was no more or less like Dagger or Chilly. But technically speaking, Stanley worked for Penguin. It was by general liking of Penguin's wife that Stanley didn't commit himself to a one-man boss. Sylvia was just as much a leader to him and Penguin's employees as she was to her own.

Whatever the loyalty, seeing Sylvia approach him, Stanley was quick to flinch away from her as she reached out to him.

"Shh-shh," Sylvia cooed. "It's fine. Look..."

He slightly relaxed at the sight of her holding a wet wash cloth, noticing that she wasn't there to dish out a second heap of punishment for being the messenger.

Josh was, once again, at her heels, awaiting any further commands. Sylvia turned to him.

"Josh, would you go to the bathroom, and get my First Aid kit. I'll need bandages, and _lots_ of them."

"Yes, Ma'am," said Josh, bowing his head and smiling furtively. He left her side for a moment.

"What are you going to do?" Stanley asked nervously.

Sylvia ignored his question. Her fingertips ghosted over the deep gashes on his face, and those leading up to his bald head, wounds caused by a blunt object. All the meanwhile, Stanley hesitated to move away from her...slightly perturbed that she was being gentle with him at all!

She looked him over, asking, "What did Penguin hit you with?"

"Stoker for the fireplace" muttered Stanley grumpily.

Crowbars or stokers, for that matter, weren't exactly Oswald's go-to, but when he was pissed off, his tendency to grab whatever was within reach wasn't unheard of. Sylvia gestured for Stanley to move his feet onto the couch to make room for herself and he did as he was silently ordered. He wasn't entirely relaxed, though, especially as Sylvia sat on the edge of the couch.

"I guess you drew the short straw, huh?" Sylvia assumed, a small smirk creeping to the corner of her mouth.

He sneered, "What do you think?"

"There's a reason why no one wants to be the messenger. You're lucky he didn't have a gun within reach."

Stanley mindfully kept his body from hers. The last thing he needed was for the Penguin to enter the room and see any body part of his touching anything of hers.

It was common knowledge for the men to know just how much Sylvia meant to Penguin (after all, she was his wife). And it wasn't only their marriage that made it clear. With Gertrud locked away in some distant, hidden prison, Sylvia was all that Oswald had right now. And he kept eyes on her all the time.

"What are you _doing_?" Stanley stammered, unnerved, as he watched Sylvia place her hand on his chest.

"Hush."

"What..."

" _Hush_." Sylvia ordered.

"But if he sees you—"

"You're not going to be seeing a doctor anytime soon, _are_ you?" Sylvia questioned.

"No..."

"Then you might as well shush it and let me help you. At the rate you all are getting injured, you'll die from infection long before you actually are due to expire. Now shut up."

Stanley sensed that this was not the first time Sylvia had to fix someone today. However, it was perplexing that a woman like her knew how to sew a wound together, or anything to do with first aid. Then again, growing up with Detective Jim Gordon for an older brother, it seemed to be a given that she'd learn some basics.

Like a good servant, Josh was back with plenty of bandages, and a bottle of peroxide.

"I couldn't find the alcohol," said Josh apologetically.

"Peroxide is fine. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Ma'am," said Josh, smiling proudly as he absorbed the praise. "Do you need anything else? Or..."

"Tea would be nice," Sylvia offered.

"I'll get that for you," said Josh eagerly. "Anything in it?"

"Sugar." Sylvia answered, opening the bottle of peroxide and she placed a great deal of it in the wash cloth.

Stanley watched the interaction between them; Josh quickly left to the kitchen to make tea. Stanley eyed him then glanced at Sylvia with the same curiosity.

"I can see the wheels turning in your head, Stanley. You want to say something," said Sylvia, drawing her eyes from him to the wash cloth, wringing it out in a bowl provided on the table. "What is it that you want to say?"

"Guess you've got your own Umbrella Boy, huh?" Stanley asked boldly.

Nonchalantly, Sylvia responded, "What makes you think that?"

"Well, you know. I remember when Penguin used to be Fish's umbrella boy. Always by her side, offering to do stuff for her, always happy when he could do something _for_ her...you know, now that I think about it, you kinda remind me of Fish— _ow! Damn it!_ "

Sylvia smirked when he hissed at her, breaking his focus as the peroxide stung his face as though she'd thrown acid on him.

"Stop being such a baby. You're making something out of nothing."

"You try getting hit with a fucking blunt object and see how much of a man you are," He grumbled.

Unaffected, she asked, "What did you say to him?"

"I didn't say _much_ ," said Stanley innocently, shifting in his position so his back leaned in the corner where the arm of the couch met the back.

"You had to say _something_ ," Sylvia pointed out, her eyes flickering to the blood slowly oozing down his neck.

"I told him what happened: the Count House was raided. The fucking pigs took everything—AH!"

Sylvia had poured a great deal of peroxide into a deep cut on his shoulder. He cringed, looking at her hatefully.

"My _brother's_ a cop," She reminded, sternly raising an eyebrow. "Mind your manners."

"Sorry, sorry—I forgot—you just don't look the type..." Stanley said quickly.

When her stern expression deepened, he was quick to change the subject.

He continued, "The cops took everything. The money, the merchandise...I'll be surprised if they don't raid the Merc next. Their new captain had more balls than their last one did..."

"Their last Captain had a bunch of Arkham inmates running around, destroying Gotham. Compared to that type of anarchy, this new Captain of theirs isn't experienced in the ways of this city, not like _she_ was."

"Yeah, the fucking bitch was—"

Without hesitation, Sylvia dipped her hand into the bowl of peroxide, splashing it into his face, getting into his eyes ("AH! GOD **DAMN** IT") He grasped at his eyeballs, trying to wipe as much from them as possible, rubbing them red.

"Don't you speak ill of the dead," Sylvia scolded. "Captain Essen was a friend."

"Goddamnit, woman. I thought you said you weren't going to hurt me," Stanley seethed.

"I never said that. Mind your fucking manners and we'll get along nicely. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"The Count House was raided…?" Sylvia said, encouraging him to continue.

He looked at her doubtfully, reluctant to say anymore lest she become offended again. Like her husband, she seemed to have an affinity for an impulsive temper tantrum. The only difference, however, was her soft, gentle side. Her motherly tendencies.

Sylvia gestured for him to sit up; he did so, and he winced as she helped him out of his shirt and suit jacket, revealing his upper body to her. He blushed red, having himself exposed to her like this but Sylvia was indifferent—having almost no reaction.

"Cops took everything," Stanley repeated. "I told Penguin, but he just lost it!"

"Well, he's dealing with a lot at the moment."

"You're defending him?"

"Not entirely," said Sylvia calmly. "But you have to appreciate the kind of stress he's under."

"You're under the same type of stress, and _you're_ not hitting me with anything."

"Well, one of us has to have a clear head during these times."

Stanley stared at her: "Has anyone told you how lucky Penguin is to have a girl like you?"

"Several people. But that's not the point, is it?"

"You're right. This captain of theirs is going to be troublesome. I can tell. He doesn't care who he crosses..."

"For Gotham, that's a _good_ thing."

"You _want_ the pig—I mean...the captain—to win?"

Sylvia rubbed his face of the blood, and placed ointment on the wounds before placing a gauze bandage over them. She did the same thing with the beaten lashes on his chest and back. For a moment, she was silent as though she was searching for the right words to explain herself.

"Gotham _sucks_ ," said Sylvia plainly (Stanley chuckled.) "But as much as it sucks ass, I love the city despite its flaws and its sewers. This city has been poisoned for a long time, and people have only started noticing because it's people like Jerome Valeska that bring its poison to the surface for everyone else to see.

"The captain is an abrasive man, sure, but on the whole, he's looking out for number one...and that's Gotham's people. If people were more like him, we wouldn't have the chaos on the streets or the homeless people in the Narrows."

Stanley sniggered, "If it wasn't for the poison in the streets, you and Penguin wouldn't be the King and Queen of _anything_. Not of Gotham, not in Falcone's mansion. It's people like Penguin that make this city look like a wreck."

"And it's the guards like **you** that make us look _weak_ ," said Sylvia curtly.

Stanley raised an eyebrow, certain he'd hit a hot button when he disrespected Penguin. But he chanced a good debate, saying, "I'm not weak."

"You got your ass handed to you by a man who is two feet shorter than you and has a limp."

"He hit me with a blunt object."

"You have a _gun,_ haven't you?"

Stanley opened his mouth to make a point, only to realize that he was defeated in this situation. Sylvia smirked at him.

"Anyway, the raiding of the Count House _does_ propose a problem. We're losing a lot of money."

"Perhaps it was one of _your_ people that drew the short straw," said Stanley, bold as ever. "Maybe they sold you out, put the screws to your empire...told the police where to go and how to raid it."

" _My_ people are loyal."

"That's what everyone says about their people."

"Mmm. Well, for the moment, I'm not worried."

She rubbed her hands together and smiled at her handiwork: "All good to go. Now, if I were you. I'd refrain from delivering any bad news."

"How am I supposed to do that exactly?"

Sylvia said smoothly, "Any bad news you have, send my way. Let me know first. I may not be able to turn the bad news into good, but I can at least soften the blow and ensure none of you get your asses handed to you by Penguin."

"I don't think he'll like that."

"If you don't agree with that plan. You're more than welcome to inform Penguin about the two other businesses that were busted this morning, _along_ with the Count House. I'm sure he'd love to hear that."

He gulped.

"Didn't think so," said Sylvia, crossing her arms. "Personally, I don't care to be the bad guy if it means you all can still be gainfully employed. With that new fucking Captain prowling around with his puffed out chest, he's starting to scare a few people, people in the Narrows, even. It'd only make things more difficult hiring more handymen."

Stanley blinked, looking at her incredulously.

"Do you _really_ care about us—any of us—that much? What if Penguin doesn't like what you have to say? What if he comes at _you_ with a stoker?"

"You do _you_ , Stanley. And you let _me_ deal with Penguin." Sylvia reassured. "Let the others know—before you tell Penguin anything, you tell me first. Got it?"

"Sure."

"Now, I'll give you some motherly advice: if I were you, I'd lie down, get some rest. No breaking down doors or anything else like that for a few days."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Sylvia smiled when Josh arrived with the tea. He held three cups on a platter, offering it to her. Sylvia thanked him, handing one cup to Stanley who accepted it gratefully while Sylvia tilted her head to the side, wordlessly instructing for Josh to follow her. He did so, tailing her heels.

**Chapter 25: Safehouses**

Josh sat in the passenger seat as Sylvia drove out of Gotham. He was silent for the most part, as was his overall personality. He didn't talk much, and he kept glancing between Sylvia and the windshield. They were heading towards a business, a contracting business of all places. Sylvia hadn't said much of anything to explain why they were going and it didn't seem to be in Josh's interest to ask.

That was until they pulled into a parking lot where an elderly man with gray hair and thick bushy black eyebrows stood just off to the side. Surrounding the area were oil factories and cheap, dime-a-dozen warehouses that focused primarily on cutting wood or making toys. It was a shady part outside of Gotham, just outside of the GCPD's jurisdiction.

"What are we doing?" Josh asked.

"You'll find out."

"I don't have to kill him, do I?" asked Josh fearfully, glancing at the large, stocky man.

"That's sweet. But no. We're not going to kill him. It's primarily just business."

"Business for what?"

Sylvia said nothing, getting out of the car; Josh quickly followed.

Thanks to her, his appearance had changed over the last couple of weeks. Instead of his homeless clothes he'd acquired after living in the Narrows for most of his life, she'd gotten him a brown jacket which he wore over a white, collared long-sleeve shirt. He wore brown slacks, and was thankful for these were the first pair of pants that didn't have holes in them...or had previously belonged to a dead man. His shoes were a bit of a tight fit for his abnormally large feet, but aside from that, he was comfortable.

He brushed his messy hair back in attempt to look more pristine, comparatively untidy when he stood beside Sylvia who wore a knee-high, black business skirt with a white, long-sleeve shirt; the sleeves were rolled up above her elbows. She looked like a lawyer, especially with her skin-matching hose and black, glossed five-inch heels.

"Good morning," Sylvia greeted the stranger.

The businessman, as he appeared to be, raised both of his eyebrows when he saw who he was meeting. Apparently, this had all been built in secrecy from the ground-up, including the identity of his potential client.

"Mrs. Cobblepot."

He spoke with such a deep voice that the bass could be felt rumbling in Sylvia's chest.

"I didn't realize," He said slowly, "that I was meeting you. I thought I was meeting...well...someone else."

"Yes, I know."

"You're not Diana….?"

"That's my middle name. And I'm sorry to have led you here under false pretenses, but you can understand the reason for it, I'm sure. A man of your profession..."

Josh leaned forward and whispered, " _What_ is his profession?"

"My boy, I build." He said proudly. "These warehouses...they're of my construction. I not only designed them from the ground up, but I also contracted them, the money, the blueprints, the wiring—all me. What's more, is that I did it in secrecy."

"Not much of a secret," Josh mumbled. "They're standing. They're here, in the open...public."

Sylvia said gently to him, "The buildings are, yes, but the people who contracted these buildings to be built are not public. Their identities are hidden, secret."

Josh eyed the businessman suspiciously, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other.

"Josh. This is Mr. Vanderhill. He's a man who gets things done." Sylvia made introductions.

"And a man who needs to know just exactly _why_ you, above all people, need to build a house," said Vanderhill. "You're living in the Falcone Mansion—that has all the safety you'd ever need."

"Safety?" Josh said curiously.

"I'm not asking for a _house._ I need a _safe_ house," Sylvia clarified. "I should remind you of the plans I had a year ago…."

"Ah, yes. The safehouse. If you want something just as grand as that mansion you live in, then I will need a lot more money than I was asking for..."

"No. I need something small. Something that can be hidden in the woods."

"Why the woods?"

"Would _you_ go searching for me in the woods?"

"Darling, I would go searching for you anywhere." Vanderhill said coyly. "A woman like you doesn't disappear off the face of the earth without several people noticing. Just what exactly do you fear will come after you and put your life at risk? After all, you're Mrs. Cobblepot, the Penguin's wife—surely, you don't have any enemies."

"You have an odd sense of humor."

"Well, with a position of yours, your people can turn on you at any given moment," said Vanderhill, shrugging. "A man has to know how you deal with that on a daily basis. Your life is on the line, twenty-four seven, and you seem to get along just fine."

"I grew up with a lawyer for a father and I have a detective for a brother. My life being on the line has since become a regular, every-day event. Now, will you be contracting this for me or will I need to find someone else?"

"No, no, no," said Vanderhill quickly, smiling with all his white teeth showing. "I'll be more than willing to accommodate. But, may I ask, why did we have to meet here outside of Gotham? Surely, all of this could have been done over the phone."

"I can't trust some people in Gotham," said Sylvia coolly. "And the walls have ears."

"I'm also a man who can keep quiet about this business, if the lady is willing."

Josh bared his teeth: "You're not going to touch her." He came forward like a rabid dog, teeth bearing, and eyes blazing, standing protectively in front of Sylvia.

Vanderhill put his hands up quickly: "Whoa, boy, now I didn't mean anything like that! I was talking about money!"

Sylvia tapped Josh on the shoulder and he backed off. Vanderhill put a hand on his forehead, wiping away that sweat that had settled uncomfortably on it. Sylvia handed him an envelope and he tested the weight, obviously content with his findings as he pocketed it with a shit-eating grin.

"Your business is safe with me, milady. And I'm certain we won't be meeting for anything else."

"If it all goes to plan; you can be rest-assured we won't."

"Do you want anything in particular as far as the exterior goes?"

"Make it inconspicuous, something a person wouldn't look twice at."

"A trailer, perhaps?"

"That'll work."

"I have just the right look. Should we shake on it?"

Sylvia held out her hand. Vanderhill shook it.

"You have soft hands." He noted, smiling at her.

Sylvia didn't respond to that. But Josh gave him a sour look before retreating to the car upon Sylvia's instructions so that they drove back to Gotham.

"I have to wonder...why did you bring me along?" Josh asked, watching Vanderhill wave at the car through the side mirror, glancing at Sylvia only after the man's reflection had long disappeared.

"I figured you'd want to come. You like being with me, _don't_ you, Josh?"

"I enjoy your company, yeah."

"What do you think of Vanderhill? Do you think he'll keep his part of the contract?"

"You want _my_ opinion?"

"Of course. That's why I'm asking."

Josh spoke softly, "I think he's a sleazy, devil-twisted rat with a lot of sin on his shoulders, but I think, for you, he'll keep his word."

Sylvia smirked at him: "You know, I was thinking the exact same thing."

"Does Mr. Penguin know about this thing?" asked Josh, glancing behind them in reference to Vanderhill and the secret plan of building a safehouse.

"No."

"Shouldn't he?"

Sylvia smiled at him, saying, "In time."

"So this is where you've been going every morning for the past week?" Josh asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"How do you know what I do every morning?"

"You normally train with Mr. Bell."

It was Sylvia's turn to quirk an eyebrow at him.

Amused, she said, "Joshua, have you been spying on me?"

"I wouldn't call it that."

"What would you call it, then?"

"Observing," Josh commented, smiling sheepishly. "I like watching you fight Mr. Bell. You're pretty quick for an...well..."

Sylvia chuckled, "An 'old' woman?"

"Well..."

"To you, I may be old. You're a kid. I'm thirty."

"I'm just saying—you move a lot faster than most people," said Josh quietly, his face turning red. "But lately...you haven't been with Mr. Bell. You've been somewhere else. And you don't tell people where you go—I'll be honest, Miss Sylvia. It makes people wonder. But...really, you've been out trying to build safehouses."

"This is the most I've heard you talk. But you're avoiding the question."

Josh said bravely, "Why not tell Mr. Penguin you've been building a safehouse?"

"I don't want to worry him."

"How would that worry him?"

Sylvia smiled gently at him saying, "When you have a spouse and a family of your own, Joshua, you will understand."

"I want to understand now."

Sylvia considered her words for a moment. Then, patiently, she said, "He's protecting me to the best of his ability. But ultimately, I'm trying to protect not just him, but _us._ If I tell him about the safehouse, he'll assume that I doubt his ability to protect me. With things becoming more complicated, it is best if I just keep him safe without him knowing."

"So you've been sneaking out of the mansion for the past week so you can protect the Boss without him knowing you're protecting him?" Josh said. "That's kind of cute."

Sylvia side-glanced him, seeing him grin toothily at her. She rolled her eyes, completely unabashed by the comment.

A beat passed as Sylvia considered something, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She signaled for a right turn, asking, "Do you want to go with me to see my brother?"

"Do you _want_ me to go?" She gave him a look and Josh said quickly, "I'd like to come, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind if you come."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

A few minutes of silence passed, during which time Sylvia watched the road while Josh glanced out the window. The cars passed them, one by one. A warm feeling filled his heart.

"Thank you."

"You said that already."

"No...I mean, yeah, but not for the same reason."

"What do you mean?"

Josh folded his hands nervously together, and said quietly, "You make me feel special, and I've never been happier. You take me places where no one else bothers to, and you ask me stuff that most people don't ask me."

Sylvia side-glanced at him, saying nothing at first.

"I know I haven't known you as long as the others, but I love you."

Sylvia looked at him, eyes wide.

"Not like that!" Josh said quickly, holding his hands out in front of him. "Nothing like that! I just mean, you know…I love you in a way that a friend could love another, in a way a son loves a mother….that's all I meant."

She smiled a little.

"You know I'm not your mother, right?" Sylvia said gently.

"Yeah, but you're the closest thing to one that I will ever have."

"That's sweet," Sylvia said, patting his shoulder. "You're alright, kid."

Sylvia visited the GCPD. She had no intention of discussing the raid that had taken place; in fact, her visit circled around seeing her brother. Since his impromptu visit to the mansion and interrogation of Oswald, his presence had become scarce. Perhaps it was because Jim knew he wouldn't get anything out of Sylvia regarding the reason behind Oswald's attempt to sabotage the election, or maybe he didn't want to anger Sylvia any further.

Either way, Sylvia was missing her brother. And that was all the reason to go visiting him.

Sylvia offered Josh to come in with her. He happily accepted, feeling a sense of accomplishment that the Boss wanted and liked having him around. In a way, he knew Sylvia could protect herself, handle herself in any case she was attacked; after all, he'd seen her train with Mr. Bell in the backyard.

But despite the aggressive, cool, calm, collected and somewhat abrasive front Sylvia projected to the enemy, there was a vulnerability inside of her...a soft spot for her employees as well as Penguin's own men. It was a side that a lot of them were able to see. She was a mother hen to them, no matter what. And that was something all of Penguin and Sylvia's men (and women) loved about her. It almost made Penguin's temper somewhat tolerable.

And it was this vulnerability that provoked this protective urge inside of Josh. He followed her, not just as a companion but in any case there might be someone amongst the cops that would try to hurt her.

As Josh followed Sylvia inside, her presence was immediately noticed by the Desk Sergeant, who happily greeted her. He was the same sergeant as before, and he didn't look any different...probably a little fatter, but then again, it was Pizza Day.

Josh followed her closely at her heels, only a few inches between them. He remained quiet, more observant of his surroundings than what was permissible. He claimed pride for his observational skills, and it was this that made him worth something. His overall appearance—his bulbous nose, and abnormally large hands and feet—made him appear harmless. And he preferred to be seen that way.

"Looking for Jim?" asked the Desk Sergeant.

Sylvia smirked: "You know me too well."

"Well. Why else do you come in here?"

"To make small talk with you."

"Now, you're just being charming." The Desk Sergeant chortled, shaking his head. He pointed up at the balcony where Jim usually worked.

"Thank you." Sylvia said, nodding to him. To Josh, she cooed, "Come along, Joshua."

Sylvia sat on the edge of Jim's desk, looking at the papers dully. Josh glanced at her curiously as she placed the papers on their front, giving Jim his due privacy. He was a cop and he delved into a great deal of sensitive cases; they weren't for her eyes to see.

"How do you do it?" Josh asked quietly.

"Do what?"

"Be a cop's sister? And be Penguin's wife...how do you do it?"

"I take it one step at a time."

"You don't feel like you're betraying Penguin when you come here?"

"Why would I?"

"Well...like...I mean, you don't feel like you're betraying Detective Gordon when you're doing stuff for Penguin? How do you keep it all separate?"

Sylvia smiled, saying, "Your relationships don't define you, just as my relationships with my brother and my husband don't define _me_. My brother doesn't like it that I'm with Penguin."

"And Penguin doesn't like you being with your brother?"

"He doesn't, but he won't say it."

"If you know they don't like you being with either, why are you?" Josh asked quietly. "Er…why do they not try to keep you from either?"

"Jim knows he can't stop me from being with Penguin. And Penguin understands the value of family; otherwise, if he didn't value his family, we wouldn't be doing everything Galavan wants because he wouldn't have any leverage on us."

"How long did it take for you to get there?" Josh asked.

"Get where?"

"To knowing all this stuff? You've must've had a lot of fights."

"More than I care to admit," Sylvia confessed. "But I think we're getting there."

Jim and Lee Thompkins were walking up the stairs. She heard Lee's voice: "Strike Force...I don't like that name."

"I'm not crazy about it either," said Jim, "But he gets things done. He can call it whatever he wants."

"Sylvia!" Lee gasped, smiling widely.

Jim gave Lee a surprised look, taken back by the exclamation but when he lifted his eyes to see Sylvia sitting on his desk, Jim smiled too.

"What a surprise," Jim said, looking at her. He glanced at Josh. "Who are you?"

"This is Josh," said Sylvia, gesturing to him. "He's a friend."

Jim looked at him then to Sylvia saying, "Is he one of Penguin's men?"

"No. One of mine. And, for your information, I didn't come to talk about him."

Lee said optimistically, "I was just wondering about you." (She hugged Sylvia.) "My goodness, how have you been?"

"Well, you're certainly happy to see me," Sylvia noted, smirking.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Lee asked.

"You were calling me 'crazy' because I left you on that spinning wheel back at the Children's Gala," Sylvia recalled. "You know….after I saved your life and everything."

"Well, I think we can all agree that we were all a bit scared. And I never officially thanked you. It could have gone a lot worse if you hadn't been there."

"I was kind of worried about that too."

"I know, right?" Lee said, smiling beautifully. "Well, at least it's all in the past."

Jim glanced oddly between Lee and Sylvia. After a moment, Lee turned to Jim, asking, "So, the Strike Force…?"

"They're going on another raid."

"So go striking with your Force," said Lee playfully. "What are we doing tonight?"

"Sleeping."

"Uh-uh. It's Date Night, Mister."

Jim noticed that his papers on his desk had been turned face-down and he glanced at Sylvia thankfully before turning to Lee with a bit of shock at the statement. Just as he did, Edward Nygma seemingly popped out of no where, and he had a large grin on his face.

From below the deck, the Desk Sergeant shouted, "PIZZA IS HERE!"

Josh glanced over the balcony, looking eager. He turned to Sylvia, about to ask the obvious. Sylvia tilted her head forward.

"Go 'head," She said.

Josh grinned from ear-to-ear, running down the stairs with the other sergeants as he went to get himself a slice. Jim glanced after Josh, turning to Sylvia.

"You've got him twisted around your finger, don't you?" Jim said suspiciously.

"Mm," Sylvia hummed, shrugging.

"I think it's kind of cute," Lee chirped, smirking. She looked at Ed, who appeared to have ants in his pants because he was moving excitedly, grinning too widely as though he couldn't wait to share his news.

"Good Morning, Ed." Jim greeted.

"Good Morning, Dr. Thompkins, Detective…." Ed acknowledged, glancing at Sylvia, adding, "And Mrs. Cobblepot. As you all very well know, I have started dating Miss Kringle… _Kristen_."

They nodded, understanding this.

"Well, Kristen mentioned that it would be nice to have dates with other couples as well, so I was wondering if it would be compelling for us to all have a date together," said Ed smoothly, glancing between Lee and Jim.

Simultaneously, Lee said, "We'd love to!"

While Jim said, "We can't."

Confused, Ed looked between them. Lee and Jim glanced at one another, and apparently Jim was convinced to agree.

"Yeah," said Jim. "Sure. No, it'll be great. We'll do it."

Lee added, "I just bought a couple of Fondue pots; we can do it at my house!"

Ed, bright and happy as ever, said, "Oh, excellent! I'll let Kristen know!"

He walked off and Sylvia smirked at them. Lee looked happy as ever while Jim looked discernibly uncomfortable.

"I know, I know, but it was the decent thing to do!"

"Fondue." Jim repeated scornfully.

"Have you ever tried it? It's delicious!" Lee insisted.

"It's at _your_ place. There's nowhere to go. We'll be stuck there. Trapped!" Jim said grumpily.

Lee chuckled, and caressed his face in her hands saying, "Don't be mean! It'll be fun, I promise! A little music, a little lighting..."

"A little bit of depression."

"What'd I just say?" Lee said coyly. "Don't be mean!" She kissed his cheek. "Trust me. It'll be fun."

She walked away with a pep in her step. Sylvia chuckled; Jim looked at her.

"You have to come with me," said Jim earnestly.

"To a double date?" Sylvia inquired. "Sorry. No can do."

"Why not?"

"It's a double-date. Four people."

"You can bring Penguin if you want," Jim tried to convince.

"Wow, you _really_ don't want to be with them, do you?" Sylvia said incredulously. "Look, Jimmy. Even if I wanted to come with Oswald, it's impossible. He has an empire to run. Thanks to your raid on the Count House, things are just getting busier."

"I thought you didn't come here to talk about Penguin."

"I didn't," said Sylvia smoothly. She grinned broadly, adding, "But I like how your guilty conscience really sets you up for the same argument. Anyway, the raid isn't why I am here. I just miss you."

"I thought you were still angry with me."

"Oh, I am. Barging into my home and yelling at my husband wasn't exactly something I would easily forget. And I'm still holding that little grudge after you failed to show up on what was the most important day of my life..."

Jim grimaced with regret.

"However," said Sylvia, rolling her eyes to the ceiling and smiling at her brother, "Despite all that, you tried to be my brother the other day...'

Jim sat on the corner of his desk: "I hope this is some type of segue that leads up to you telling me who's been threatening you."

"No. I can't tell you. I _want_ to, but I can't."

"You're pretty calm about it."

"Well, it's not the first time I've had my life thrown into absolute turmoil, is it?" Sylvia said humorously. "Besides...I've missed you. And if it's worth anything, I am prepared to forgive the fact that you didn't show up to my wedding, or your mistreatment of my family. I'm willing to forgive all of that...if you're willing to forgive me."

Jim stared at her: "Forgive you for what?"

"I keep telling you that you've not been a good brother," said Sylvia quietly. "But I've not been a very good sister either."

"Well, if it's any consolation, I've not really made it easy for you."

"That, we can both agree on."

They exchanged humorous smiles. Jim glanced over the balcony, noticing that the sergeants were telling Josh that he looked like a businessman. He was swimming in their praise, beaming.

"So, who's that guy to you?" asked Jim, sizing up Josh. "He looks out of place, even for your kind of work."

"Riff-rat I picked off the streets. He's part of my dance number."

"One of the Fire Bugs, huh? Does he tap-dance?"

"Why would he tap dance?"

"He's got the feet for it."

"Don't be mean," Sylvia chastised, but she allowed herself a small smile. "He's good at lifting people when the dance permits it."

"He doesn't look strong."

"There's more to him than what meets the eye," She reassured.

"Does Penguin know you're here?"

Sylvia gave him a look: "Why would he?"

"He seems to keep a closer eye on you these days." Jim noted observationally.

"That, he does."

"Why do I feel like it has something to do with Caulfield's and Hobbs' death?" Jim questioned knowingly. "And…I bet it was Penguin that tried to kill Galavan during the same day. Tell me if I am wrong."

"You _know_ who it was. You don't need me to vindicate your suspicions. You have that little witness of yours."

"You know you'd make my job a lot easier by telling me what's happening."

A hard smile replaced the gentle one, and Sylvia crossed her arms defensively, like she was protecting herself.

"You don't have to say the name," Jim insisted, getting to his feet. "If you're being watched, we can go in my car. Or, hell, just write it on a piece of paper. Here!"

He shoved a notepad into her hands and gave her a pencil: "Tell me who's threatening you, Vee. I can help you."

"It bothers you that much, huh?" Sylvia said, grinning a little when she saw just how annoyed Jim was for knowing someone was picking on his little sister.

"You know it does," said Jim, grinding his teeth.

"But you know how these things work," She said, lowering the notepad onto the desk. "This person, Jim...they have people watching us. I don't know who I can trust anymore."

"You trust _that kid_?" Jim asked, glancing indicatively at Josh who was eating pizza with the Desk Sergeant below.

"How about this? You tell me who gave you the news on the Count House. I'll tell you who's threatening my livelihood."

"You know I can't do that. That's police business."

"And so is this," said Sylvia, raising the notepad, shoulder-level. "Someone's putting the screws to your sister, a _cop's_ sister. If that's not police business, I don't know what is."

"Tell me who it is," Jim said, his voice was strong with passion and earnest. "You can tell me. I just need a name. It doesn't even have to be the whole name! Look, this guy—whoever it is—needs to be brought to justice. If he's doing this kind of thing to you, who knows who else he's gone after, or _will_ go after!"

Sylvia smiled painfully.

"They have someone close to me, Jimmy," She whispered.

"Who?"

"I can't tell you that. But it's someone close to me."

"What is the offender's gender? Male? Female?"

Sylvia mouthed, "Male."

"One step closer," said Jim, more to himself than Sylvia. "What's his alibi? Why is he doing this? What's the end game for him? Tell me any of that."

"He's rich. He has the world at his fingertips, and every pawn on the chess board belongs to him. I don't know his end game. I don't know why he's doing any of this. He's told me what he wants to do and why he's doing it, but I don't believe it's the real reason. There's something more to understanding him...to beating him. I just don't know what that is."

"You've been hanging around Nygma," said Jim tiredly. "You're speaking in riddles."

Sylvia chuckled, "Well, unlike you, I love riddles."

"Let's forget about this then, if you won't tell me anything," said Jim, placing the notepad on his desk. " _Will_ you come to the date with me?"

"Lee will be jealous. Asking another girl on a date."

"Just please come with me. Like, I have _nothing_ to say to Ed or his girlfriend. It's going to be so awkward!" Jim pleaded. "What if I get on my knees, will that persuade you any?"

"Sure." Sylvia said, gesturing to the floor. "Have at it."

Jim grumbled to himself. Why on earth did he have to go and say that? Slowly, but surely, Jim got down on one knee, and begged, "Please come with me to the double date..."

" _Both_ knees, James," said Sylvia sharply.

"Damn it…." He mumbled. He knelt down on both knees, and put his hands together. "Please, please, _please_ come with me to this double date!"

"Ask me nicely."

"That _is_ nicely."

"Nope. I know you, Jim. You can do a lot better than that."

Jim sighed in defeat, bowing his head. He lied down on his stomach, looking up at her and said, "Please, Queen Sylvia Diana Cobblepot, will you accompany me to this double date that will no doubt be an awkward disaster if you don't come?"

"A little more," Sylvia pried, smirking down at him.

"Because you're the most lovable, awesome, sweetest, most loving sister in the whole wide world..." Jim continued.

"Come on. You know the rest."

"This is ridiculous. We're not even ten years old anymore."

"But you know it's what I want to hear."

Jim grumbled, "Pretty please, with sugar on top and candy corns, and peppermints…with extra frosting..."

"Don't forget the cherries!"

"...and the chocolate-covered cherries on top…."

"Good enough."

Jim stood to his feet, grunting, "Man, I'm getting too old for this."

"You should try that begging stuff on Lee," said Sylvia, grinning impishly at him. "She'd love that kind of crap."

"Why on earth would I beg her for?"

Sylvia stared at him saying, "It's pretty much all Vanilla with you, isn't it, James? Doesn't Lee ever ask for like over-the-top stuff?"

"What do you mean?"

"Bring your handcuffs out—"

"That's government property!" Jim chastised.

"Pull her clothes off in the dark."

"She bought those clothes last week."

"The fact that you know that _and_ remember is something out of this world," said Sylvia, staring at him. "Look, Jim. If things ever get stale between the two of you, just remember this. Girls _love_ it when guys get dominant and possessive."

Jim stared at her saying: "What are you talking about? Seriously, what are we talking about right now?"

"BDSM," said Sylvia plainly. "Experimentation is a natural part of any relationship. You might just get a kick out of it."

"Why are you telling me this?" Jim asked uncomfortably.

"Because you seem like an innocent little boy who needs to know more about pleasing his woman. Trust me. Lee will thank you for it."

"I do just fine in the bedroom—not that you need to know any of that."

"Well, get this. Choke her with your cock, and then lay her down over your coffee table—"

"Sylvia, stop—"

"Then make her beg…."

"Sylvia, please stop," Jim muttered. "This entire conversation is making me uncomfortable."

"Oh please, like you haven't thought about shoving her against a wall and cuffing her hands behind her back," said Sylvia mischievously. "You know—pushing her against the wooden table before the wood pushes back."

"What the hell does that even mean?" Jim questioned incredulously.

"You've really gotta get out more."

Jim said shakily, "You need to get out less."

Sylvia smirked: "Well, it's a suggestion."

"I'm all suggestioned out." Jim said quietly. "Are you coming to the house, then, I take it?"

"Sure. I'll bring a few things. It'll be fun. I might even give Ed some pointers—Kristen will love that."

"You'll make him feel awkward, Vee."

"Eh—who haven't I made awkward?" Sylvia said, cracking her knuckles.

Sylvia started walking away, but Jim caught her arm. She looked at him curiously as she was pulled back slowly. Jim wrapped his arms around her. Sylvia smiled in spite of herself and hugged him back.

"You know you can always come to me."

"Always."

She pulled back.

"You know, Dad would be happy if he saw us like this. Lord knows he saw us fighting more than anything."

Jim kissed her forehead and Sylvia beamed.

" _Sorry to interrupt this moment…."_

Sylvia felt her stomach and insides boil as she glanced at the direction of the voice, seeing Galavan. Her body stiffened and Jim glanced at her curiously before turning professionally to him.

"Detective," said Galavan coolly, "Do you have a moment?"

"Of course." Jim said, nodding. He glanced at Sylvia, noticing how quickly her sweet, soft expression had hardened. "Are you okay, Vee?"

Sylvia gulped and nodded.

"I'll bring him back," Galavan promised, smirking at her.

She glowered at him. Jim gave her a curious look before he accompanied Galavan further away. Sylvia grinded her teeth together and then walked down the stairs, purposely shoving her shoulder against Galavan's. Jim glanced at the odd movement but politely ignored it so he could listen to what Galavan had to say.

Sylvia only listened long enough to learn that Galavan was seeking out Jim for endorsement.

Sylvia strode down the stairs, stopping by the desk sergeant where Josh was still eating the pizza.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," Sylvia growled.

Josh thanked the sergeants for the pizza and quickly headed out after her.

**Chapter 26: Paranoia And A Distraction**

Oswald sat in the Meeting Room, eyes focused entirely on the fire. He'd pressed his mind over and over where his mother could be, and still there was nothing. Butch had not found anything, and his men, despite their earnest searching, had also come up empty-handed.

He wasn't sure if there was anyone he could trust. How many people did Galavan hire to keep an eye on him and his men? Was there a way of beating Galavan—if there was, why hadn't Oswald found it yet. He prided himself on reading people; using people's weaknesses to get what he wanted. But what was Galavan's weakness?

This man who had his mother in his clutches had done well to cover all of his bases. Asking for his mother to be brought back home hadn't done a damn thing. If anything, it had made Galavan appear stronger, more dangerous...and that wasn't helping him.

Oswald stared deeper into the fiery pit. In one hand, he held a glass, filled halfway with wine. He debated about drinking something stronger. But then he wouldn't have all his ducks in a row, would he? He needed to be coherent…

Forget the fact that his men may or may not betray him. Forget the fact that his mother was stuck in a cage, pleading, and wondering why her devoted son had not come to rescue her just yet. Forget all of that. More importantly, Oswald wondered just where his Pigeon was sneaking off to every morning.

She wasn't training with Mr. Bell. Mr. Bell had informed him that Sylvia had not been with him at the track for the past five days. What was she doing then?

Oswald bit his bottom lip in contemplation. His right hand held the glass; his left remained empty, rubbing his fingers together in some way of coping. The small gesture was, if anything, an act of comforting himself. The thumb of his left hand coaxed the wedding band on his ring finger to move, twirling it around and around slowly, thoughtfully.

Where was his beloved sneaking off to? Why didn't she tell him yet?

Was she losing faith in his ability to maintain the empire that he'd built? That _they_ had built together?

Oswald frowned deeply.

Sylvia had become his constant. Against thick and thin, wrong, or right, she'd remained a constant reminder to him that even in a world full of darkness and cloudy skies, there was still sun. Was his sun starting to cast shadows of doubt? Had someone turned her against him?

He was quick to deny it.

He'd show Galavan that his paranoia was getting to him, but just how much of that paranoia was fraudulent? Was it possible that Galavan had somehow turned _Sylvia_ against him?

He thought of her.

Sylvia was starting to wear blacks and reds than the usual bright colors she'd been known to adorn. And he recalled that wedding day where he'd seen her in the yellow sundress. How beautiful, she looked. How beautiful, she still appeared. With all the stress he'd carried on his shoulders, Sylvia somehow was able to do the same. She wore the heavy crown as though it weighed less than a feather, and despite his temper, she'd maintained a certain clear, level head that he would sometimes forget to keep.

He lashed out at his subordinates; and sure enough, a few days later, he'd see that they were cleaned up and bandaged. Sylvia had become something of a nurse and a mother to his men, to her own people...he wondered if she would be able to steal the empire from him.

Or was that her entire intention? To steal the empire from him, and give it to Galavan?

Oswald glared at the fireplace. He heard her footsteps before Sylvia had announced her presence.

"Where did you go this morning?" Oswald asked in the direction of the fireplace; his eyes flickered upwards and to her as Sylvia stepped in line sight.

She was barefoot, wearing a teal-colored robe. Her hair was wet from the shower water. Despite his suspicions, Oswald felt an obnoxious tug where he wanted it least. He couldn't deny that seeing her tangled wet locks draped around her shoulders carelessly, and the silk robed attempted to shroud her curves made him long for her.

Since Gertrud's kidnapping, they had lacked intimacy.

"Why do you ask?" Sylvia asked mysteriously, clasping her hands in front of her. Like a dutiful wife.

Oswald eyed her: "You've been distant. You haven't said a single word to me all day."

"Well, you've been busy," said Sylvia, gesturing to the Meeting Room in general. "And I didn't want to disturb you."

"What about this morning?" Oswald voiced with shaking calm.

"What _about_ this morning?"

"You visited James Gordon."

"Well, he _is_ my brother."

"Did you tell him anything?"

"Not a thing."

"Why do I get the feeling you're lying to me?" Oswald questioned, leaning towards his right, and looking at her more closely.

"If you think I'm lying to you..."

"If you have something to confess, then _confess_. Otherwise, stop wasting my time."

"Stop wasting _your_ time?" Sylvia responded curtly. "You're accusing me of something. I don't know what. But I can reassure you that I've done nothing wrong."

"Have you not?"

Sylvia gave him a look as he stood to his feet.

"What do you _think_ I've done, Oz?" Sylvia questioned, placing her hands on her hips.

"What do **you** think?" Oswald retorted, glaring at her. "You've been disappearing off to somewhere every morning, and you've not explained yourself—"

"I didn't realize I had any explaining to do. What, you think I'm having an affair?"

"It's odd. That's actually crossed my mind a couple of times."

Sylvia stepped towards him, glaring up at him: "And where exactly do you think I'm going? Who the fuck would I be running off to?"

Oswald pursed his lips together, and he said nothing. But Sylvia could see it in his eyes. And what she saw made her glare daggers at him.

"You think I've turned against you?"

"Haven't you?" Oswald questioned, gesturing to her. "The signs are all there. We don't talk like we used to. You don't tell me where you've been going every morning for the past week? Who have you been meeting?"

Sylvia crossed her arms defensively. She had no response, so Oswald thought the worst.

"Tell me their name! I swear to god, I will kill—"

"I'm not having an affair with anyone, Oswald! I've not been running off to some stranger's apartment in the middle of the fucking day. I've been at my club, or at one of the other businesses..."

"Can anyone vouch for you?"

"I'm not going to reveal my alibi! I'm your wife. I don't _need_ one. And for your fucking information, Oswald Cobblepot, I don't deserve to be talked down to by anyone, _especially_ you. I'm **not** the one you need to be worried about—Galavan is. And this is exactly what he wants!"

"How do you know what he wants?" Oswald interrogated suspiciously.

Sylvia gaped at him: "Oh my god, I can't even believe what you're implying. This is un-fucking-real." She started walking away, but Oswald lunged after her.

"It's true, isn't it? Isn't it! You and—and **Galavan**!"

Sylvia stared at him. He was breathing quick, his face contorted in rage. His eyes were brighter than usual, a kind of sky blue. He'd pushed her against the wall, his body pressed against hers. And he looked angry, so angry that he might just doing something he would later regret. He inadvertently put his hands on her; left hand around her throat, the other gripping her dominant wrist so tightly, she was certain the blood had stopped circulating past her wrist.

"Oswald...Oz…." Sylvia whispered. "I swear. I have not turned against you."

"How can I be sure? How…How can I be certain?"

"Look at me. You can tell when I'm lying, can't you? I swear to god...I've not betrayed you. I'm still yours. I'm still your pigeon."

Oswald looked at her as she begged him to do. He saw her eyes, and he was certain he could see into her soul. They were bright as his. He could almost see his own reflection in them. He could also see that her eyes had become glossy, like she would cry.

He let her go, both her throat and wrist.

Oswald looked like he might let go of himself too. He stepped back and watched her continue to stay pinned against the wall, even though he was no longer forcing her against it.

"I'm sorry." Oswald told her quietly, shaking. "I can see now that you're not lying to me."

"It's okay."

Oswald rubbed his face tiredly.

"I feel like I'm losing my mind."

Sylvia looked at him empathetically: "You need to stop thinking about it. You're driving yourself mad."

"Am I? How can I stop thinking about it? About _her..._ They have her and what am I to do?"

"I know I can't make you stop thinking about this whole situation. But you _do_ need a distraction. If it's only for a few minutes."

Oswald looked at her skeptically: "I can't afford to be distracted."

"Well, you can't afford to be high-strung either."

"I don't exactly have a choice."

"Come with me."

Sylvia took his hand and he followed her (more or less to see where she was taking him). She pulled him into the bedroom.

"Sylvia," muttered Oswald. "With the way I'm feeling, sex is the last thing I want to think about."

"I'm not asking you to," said Sylvia gently. "Just come to bed with me."

Relenting, Oswald undressed and climbed into bed with her; Sylvia took off her robe and slid under the covers. She pressed her body against him, and Oswald felt a certain connection with her that he'd not felt in several days. Their intimacy had been lacking over that time, and now, here it was again.

Sylvia nuzzled his neck, softly kissing the skin just beneath his ear and jaw. It sent a small, numbing shock between his legs. It was a weak spot, and she knew it all too well. She moved on top of him, her breasts rubbing lightly against his chest as their bodies melded together, as one. Oswald wrapped his arms around her back, unable to resist the urge to feel how well her curves lined atop of his body, so pliant and warm.

He felt her hips, how soft and curvy the small of her back flexed when his fingertips just barely grazed.

He smiled inwardly when her feet brushed against his legs; every part of her body needed to be touching his. And Oswald wanted the same thing.

Sylvia kissed his nose, smiling widely when he let out a little chortle. She kissed his cheek, and trailed those kisses to the corner of his mouth; he turned his head ever so slightly, and felt a glow of accomplishment when he heard Sylvia gasp as he brushed his lips against hers.

It felt like it was the first time since they'd kissed in a while. Not something so brief as a quick one before bed or what people gave each other before hurrying off to work. This was soft, tender, and meaningful. Oswald heard her sigh contentedly, and it brought about another heat wave.

Sylvia smirked, taking his wrists, and pinning them above his head playfully. For a moment, she was in control. Or so she thought.

Her hips started to move a little more. She'd straddled him, her naked heat slowly grinding his semi-erection.

Sylvia crashed her mouth against his. The kissing started gathering more steam. Her lips parted ever so slightly and Oswald more than readily took the opportunity to deepen the kiss. She tasted like strawberries and margaritas; he tasted like red wine. She moaned in his mouth, this time with a little more need.

Oh, there's that third or fifth numbing electric shock again. He felt it shoot down his back in pleasurable spikes before zinging down to his shaft, up to the tip.

"I love you, Ozzie," Sylvia whispered.

"I love you too, Pigeon," Oswald whispered back.

It was quiet in the room. No car horns or angry customers, no messengers giving bad news, or police officers breaking down the doors. Not even the sound of the traffic outside entered through those double doors or barricaded windows. All Sylvia and Oswald could hear was the soft rustling of the sheets as their bodies moved together, and the quiet but discernible moans that escaped their lips.

Oswald lifted his hips, smirking when she let out an involuntary needy whimper. Yet another opportunity came knocking—while she was disarmed, he turned them so she was on her back and he was on top of her. Sylvia looked up at him reproachfully.

"That was a dirty trick," Sylvia said coyly.

Oswald flitted his fingers down her sides, making her shudder pleasurably. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him to her even closer.

"Tell me you're mine," Oswald said quietly.

"I'm yours."

" _Again_."

"I'm yours. Always."

She felt the head of his stiff cock nudging her entrance.

Oswald kissed her again, and she quickly responded to him.

"You're mine." Oswald mumbled, and just as he said so, his cock slowly sank inside of her.

She wasn't wet nearly enough, but just enough that he slid easily inside of her with only a small push of resistance. He rolled his hips against her, slowly pulling out only to thrust in with the same speed. He loved the way her body moved with his, so responsive.

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her hands locking them together with her wrists. Along his shoulder blades, he could feel her nails slightly digging, just enough to spur him on but not enough to make him lose control. His desire for her was over the moon, but he wanted more than anything to be close to her.

"Mine," Oswald moaned. "All mine."

His dominant hand moved between them, holding her down by her throat. With her eyes closed, Sylvia craned her head back to grant him more access. This only made him harder. And she was grinning.

He quickened his thrusts. She was wet between her legs, drenching his cock in her excitement. And she was only getting wetter. Her face, neck, and chest were bright red, flushed with desire. Oswald kissed her roughly, so hard it nearly hurt. Sylvia entangled her hand in his hair, pulling. Oswald chuckled darkly, grabbing her hands in one of his, forcing them above her head.

"I like making love to you," Oswald told her, "but I know you want more than anything to be fucked like the slut that you are."

Sylvia grinned mischievously up at him, pleased that she'd gotten him in a dirty-talking mood already! Her bright blue eyes meeting his.

"Then stop holding back and fuck me like the slut that I am," she breathed.

It didn't take much.

"Turn." Oswald ordered breathlessly.

Sylvia rolled onto her front; she let out a gasp when he shoved her face into the mattress, silently ordering her to stay put. She wanted to test his limit, his boundaries. She quickly sat up on her knees.

"Stay, Sylvia. I don't like repeating myself."

He pushed her head back down, and pulled her waist upwards, rubbing his hands over her ass then down her back. She heard him groan, and Sylvia felt her insides ache for him. Just hearing how much he needed to be inside of her again was almost as good as the real thing.

Sylvia lifted her head, craning it around to see him admiring her backside. She smirked and stood on her knees again. Oswald exhaled a sigh of mock disappointment, wrapping his fingers around her neck and pulled her back to him; her back collided with his chest and she bit her lip when he hoarsely whispered in her ear, "Bad girl."

With his free hand, he reached around to her front, and slowly circled her engorged clit with his index finger, smirking when she wriggled against him.

"I'm sorry, I'll behave."

"I'm sorry _what_?"

"I'm sorry, Sir."

She let out an involuntary moan as he dipped two fingers inside her pussy, twirling his fingers inside and curling them.

"Who's in control?" Oswald questioned darkly.

"You are."

"That's right," He whispered. "And what did I ask you to do?"

"To keep my head down."

"And did you do that?"

"No…."

"No, what?"

"No, Sir. I didn't." Sylvia said with a smaller voice. "I was curious."

"Mmmm. Why am I not surprised," Oswald said, kissing her cheek. "You have an innate curiosity, don't you, Pidge? You just can't help it."

"No, Sir." Sylvia mumbled.

She closed her eyes, and bit her lip when he circled her clit with his finger, randomly rubbing the nub when she least expected it. When he did, her body would twitch and shudder, and she'd let out the most beautiful sounds.

Oswald tilted his head, planting kisses down her neck and jaw. He kissed her earlobe.

"You try so hard to play innocent," he uttered. "I could almost believe it if it weren't the fact that I know you're not."

Sylvia turned her head, meeting his eyes.

"You know me too well, Osw—mm!" Sylvia let out a small keen when he rubbed her clit hard, some of her excitement dripped down the inside of her thigh.

"What was that, Dear?" Oswald asked, smirking at her.

Sylvia answered breathlessly, "I meant...You know me too well, _Sir_."

"Oh, the things I want to do to you," said Oswald, panting, "there's not a single Priest that would listen to my confession."

"And what kind of things are those, Sir?"

Oswald pressed her against him, holding her throat firmly against his shoulder; her eyes were forced to look up at the ceiling fan above them. Oswald kissed her shoulder, bit it until she let out a small scream of pain, and then licked the mark, hearing her soft sigh of relief. He did the same thing along her neck, all the while he rubbed his finger gently over her clit. She stood her on her knees, leaning back against him.

"Sinful things."

"Tell me. Please, Sir. I want to know..."

"Of course, you do, Pet. That is the point."

He placed two fingers inside her warm entrance, then a third. He moved them inside of her until they were soaked with her excitement, and she was begging for more, not just the teasing, but for his control.

"Please," Sylvia begged. "Please…"

"What do you want me to do to you?"

"Control me, _take_ me."

Oswald pushed her on her stomach and he mounted her eagerly. She wiggled underneath him; the action made his cock harder. He still thrusted his fingers in and out of her, grinning widely when his entire hand was soaked; Sylvia's legs lightly kicked, hoping it would spur him on.

And it did.

"I want you in a way I've never wanted you more," Oswald said hoarsely.

He rubbed the head of his cock against her ass, probing where he'd never gone before. He grabbed her hair, pulling it in one direction so her head spun to the other; he kissed her ear, whispering, "I need to be inside you more than anything."

"Please, Sir, just do it," Sylvia pleaded. "Please...I'll do anything. I'll be a good girl, I promise."

Oswald rubbed Sylvia's excitement along her puckered entrance, pressing first his index finger inside and when she wiggled her butt, he added a second one. Sylvia let out a soft moan, and a louder one when she felt Oswald sink his cock inside her pussy.

"Shh," Oswald uttered; his hand was still around her throat, even as he lowered his body on top of her. Like the lovely defiant little one that she was, Sylvia attempted to put up a fight but Oswald grabbed her flailing arm and pinned it against her back.

When his cock was slathered with her warm wetness, Oswald pulled out and slowly moved between her buttocks.

"Tell me to stop if you need to," Oswald reassured.

"Don't stop…Keep going."

Oswald allowed her to adjust, inch by inch. He watched her face for any subtle cues of resistance, but all he could see were expressions of desire and contentment—and she became the only thing he could see, hear, or think about.

Certain she would not deny him (and how could she, really), Oswald slowly pulled out only to slide back in. The muscles inside her ass were tighter and a lot less eager to let him go, so pulling out was an interesting journey; thrusting back in was an even more interesting one. He expected for her to stop him at any given moment, but instead, her free hand squeezed his hand that was wrapped around her throat, egging him on.

"Fuck," Oswald groaned. "Do you see what you do to me…."

"Harder. Please, Sir. I need it."

"You and me, both," He agreed breathlessly.

He was enforcing a sense of restraint. He wanted her in every shape and form, in her ass, in her pussy, against a wall, on a chair—it was starting to sound more like a Dr. Seuss knock-off instead of a list of all the ways he pictured her.

Oswald had lost his concentration and slipped out of her, nearly losing his rhythm. Sylvia let out a small laugh, and he smiled too. He put himself back inside her, and Sylvia moaned again.

"Harder." Sylvia begged.

He thrust inside harder. He placed his weight on top of her; his chest against her back, his head resting against her shoulder. He let go of her wrist and she moved her hand onto the sheets; Oswald smirked inwardly when he watched her hand grasp at the bedding, knuckles clenched.

The headboard creaked, being shuttled back and forth with the slight bounce of their bodies. Sylvia pushed against him impatiently, wanting more in so little time.

"Stop wriggling," Oswald ordered.

"But—" Sylvia moved her hands impatiently, and he grabbed them, pinning them on the bed, on either side of her shoulders.

In a way, she pouted, but it was the probably the cutest—if not the hottest—thing he'd ever seen. Oswald whispered in her ear, "Patience, Pet. Be good for me."

Sylvia moaned when he moved deeper inside. Her body pressing hers into the mattress was the second best feeling in the world. His hands immobilized hers, his body pinned her body between it and the bed; Sylvia craved this sort of physical intimacy, but her insides truly burned with passion when he placed his hands on hers, and his fingers interlaced with them slowly, his thumb stroking over her thumb.

"I love you so fucking much," Oswald groaned.

Sylvia smirked at him, saying, "Sir curses a lot when he fucks."

Oswald started thrusting roughly, and she was unable to make any audible sounds, let alone complete sentences. He was so close to coming, it would be the hardest time to stop now. He started seeing stars, his sight almost blackening as he came inside her so hard that he collapsed.

When he collected his wits again, Oswald panted, "Turn over, Pidge."

With shaky legs, Sylvia did as she was told and was transfixed when he moved between them.

"Oz, what are you—"

He pushed her legs apart wider, his hands on her inner thighs. Without much prompting, Oswald took her clit in his mouth and sucked gingerly. Her question dissolved into grateful moans.

"Fuck..." Sylvia murmured, biting her bottom lip as Oswald dipped his tongue inside her pussy.

Her fingers tangled in his raven hair, her back arching as he ate her as though she would be his last meal for years. He moved his hands and grabbed her butt, lifting it so he could delve his tongue deeper.

"Fuck," Sylvia moaned. " _Fuck_...oh my god, I'm so close."

Drinking her in, Oswald touched his thumb against her clit, rubbing it slowly as he'd done before. Dipping his tongue inside her, Oswald watched her face and body respond in bliss.

"Baby, please…." Sylvia pleaded. "I'm almost there! Don't stop!"

Just as she was edging, Oswald rubbed her clit feverishly. It was the trigger and it set her off like the Fourth of July. Her scream started out as a soft moan and in seconds became a beautiful song. If he hadn't gotten off before, Oswald was certain her sounds alone could make him come.

She was slowly coming down from her high, legs shaking, and breath slowly becoming slow and normal. Sylvia looked at him tiredly, smiling.

Oswald moved to sit beside her. Sylvia shakily sat up.

"Thank you, Pigeon," Oswald uttered softly, smiling at her.

"It distracted you. That's all I was trying to accomplish. If only for a moment."

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek: "You're my sun and my stars. If I could only give you one thing it would be for you to see yourself in the same way as I see you."

"And in what way is that?" Oswald asked.

"You're my King. With or without the crown. Money or no money. You are my King. And no amount of influence—threat or otherwise—would ever make me turn against you. Remember that."

**Chapter 27: Oswald's Gift**

Sylvia looked in the mirror. To the double date, she'd planned on wearing something festive and casual but business-like. Neither Jim nor Lee had informed her of a dress code, but Sylvia suspected that it wouldn't be a formal occasion. After what might have been five different outfit changes, she'd finally gone with number six.

Blue jeans with an off-the-shoulder, blood-red shirt. It matched the fire in her hair, which she'd pulled up into a pony tail. Still…

She started second guessing the outfit again.

"Where are you heading off to?" Oswald asked, walking into the bathroom. He wore his typical business suit, looking more chipper than he had in the past few days.

"Dr. Thompkins and Jim have a double date."

"And you're going?" Oswald asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.

"As a plus-one," She explained.

"Who's the other couple?"

"Ed and Kristen."

"Who?"

Sylvia waved to the door, indicating her brother: "They work with Jim."

Oswald looked at her skeptically.

"It's fine, Ozzie," She said reassuringly. "Jim asked me to come."

"Why?"

"He doesn't like being alone with Ed."

"Who's Ed?"

"He works in the Forensics department. Pretty passive guy, a bit of a nerd. But otherwise, polite, sweet, worth talking to,"

"Is this a friend of yours?" Oswald asked coolly.

"Yes." Sylvia said gently. Sensing it, she peered at him with curiosity: "How's that paranoia of yours?"

Oswald gave her a look: "You can understand my concern, can't you?"

"More than anyone. But, be rest assured, you haven't anything to worry about. Jim is awkward, Edward is awkward, and the girls are conventional. If anything, the worst thing to come out of this is I become constipated from the cheese fondue."

Oswald cracked a smile saying, "That's the worst-case scenario, is it?"

"Yes, it is." Sylvia said playfully. "Assuming I can walk. You pretty much destroyed me from the waist down. My legs are like jelly, right now. I blame all of it on you."

"You're trying to butter me up."

"Well, yes," She admitted, smiling widely. "But I'm also speaking out of honesty."

She snaked her arms around his neck, looking up at him. Oswald placed his hands on her hips gingerly. She felt the heel of his cane tap her against her ankle.

"We should do the same thing tonight," Sylvia suggested.

"It's only been a couple hours since the last—"

Oswald was stopped in mid-sentence as Sylvia pulled him to her, shoving her mouth against his. But he was more than happy to reciprocate. He pushed her against the bathroom door, feeling that sudden rush of adrenaline as her back collided against it.

"Tonight," Sylvia uttered breathlessly. "But faster."

"And harder."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart."

Sylvia kissed him gingerly. He returned it.

"Be careful." Oswald told her.

"Always am." She said casually, winking at him. "But before I forget, I have something for you."

"Do you?" Oswald said, watching her exit the bathroom.

He followed her into the living room of the mansion, watching her bend down at the waist as her hands sifted under the middle cushion of the couch. When she found what she was looking for, she pulled it out and handed it to him.

It was a cane, much like the one he held, but instead, this one was far more personalized. It was steel with an ebony, glossy finish. What was more was that the handle itself was that of a silver-polished abstract figure of a penguin's head in its shape and, in particular, the beak. Sylvia straightened, getting to both of her feet, and smiled when Oswald took it gingerly.

"It's a penguin," said Sylvia, pointing to the handle.

"You didn't have to," Oswald said, although he could barely stop himself from grinning.

"But I did," said Sylvia playfully. "What do you think?"

"It's beautiful."

Sylvia crossed her arms casually, watching him look it over.

"Take the handle off," She said impishly.

"It comes off?"

"Of course, it comes off. Go on."

Oswald lifted the handle, and grinned even wider when the handle of the cane became the handle of that of a sharp dagger. He'd thought of making something like this before, but with everything going on, he'd not bothered. Perhaps, for its intended purpose, it was the best time to have it.

"Everything about it is exquisite," said Oswald. "I thought about doing this for..."

"A long time, yeah?" said Sylvia knowingly. She smirked when he looked at her, taken aback. "I listen to you when you sleep, Ozzie. You have a habit of doing a bit of sleep-talking."

"I talked about this in my sleep?"

"Not every detail, but I got the gist," Sylvia admitted. "'A knife that's hidden'...and more sleep gibberish. That's all I had to go on, but I figured with your moniker...it'd suit you well."

"I should say it does!" He said, grinning happily like a boy who'd gotten the best Christmas gift ever.

"Also," She said, stepping closer to him. "I've heard you moan in your sleep. I can't imagine what your dreams are about, but I would _love_ to know."

"Most likely, they involve you," Oswald admitted.

"Of course. But I want details, man."

"I can't remember them. Not off the top of my head."

Sylvia grinned widely, ear-to-ear when a light pink dusted his cheeks.

"Since you have a hidden weapon of yours, I guess that means I should carry one on my own person, huh?" She offered less than enthusiastically.

Oswald watched her curiously as she sauntered into the next room, coming out with a hand-gun, small enough to fit in her palm.

"Where?" Oswald asked, indicating the weapon.

"More like 'Whom'." Sylvia specified.

"Should I be concerned?"

"It's from Victor."

Oswald looked at her stoically.

Sylvia kissed his cheek, saying, "You needn't worry about Victor, sweetheart. If it's any consolation, I've seen him half-naked and there were _no_ sparks going on between my legs, not even enough to start a smoke signal."

Oswald's eyes widened at the discovery, but he allowed himself a small grin when she finished the rest of that sentence.

"Your jealousy is understandable. But trust me. You can't lose me."

Oswald beamed at her as she kissed his cheek.

"If something unfolds as far as Galavan is concerned, you'll let me know, won't you?"

"Of course."

"And I will do the same," Sylvia promised. "I love you, Daddy Penguin."

"I love you too, Mama Pigeon."

She walked out of the mansion. As she did, Oswald watched after her. As though on cue, Gabe stepped forward, looking expectantly at him.

Without looking at him, Oswald said briskly, "Follow her."

"You think she's lying to you, Boss?"

"I don't know _what_ to think, but I know she was telling the truth."

"What if she was pretending to _pretend_ to tell the truth?"

Oswald scowled: "I know my own wife. Just follow her and make sure no harm comes to her."

"Sure, sure. I'm just saying. _You_ thought she was disloyal too, Boss."

"A mistake I won't make again," Oswald vowed. "Now. _Please_ go."

"Yes, sir." Gabe said, giving him a small salute before walking to the car and following Sylvia's.

**Chapter 28: The Double-Date Disaster**

Sylvia took the backroads. It wasn't a common thing for her to do, but there was a nagging feeling happening in her brain. The car had been tailing her for the past thirty minutes; it went down every road she turned on, and everywhere she stopped, it stopped as well.

_Someone is following me._

That was the thought she was trying so hard to ignore. But every turn she took, it became louder and louder. And the gut feeling became stronger.

She sighed, looking in her rearview mirror when after she'd turned five more times, the car was still behind her.

Yep, there was no doubt about it. Someone was following her. Friend or foe, she'd have to find out one way or another. If it was friend, fine. She could understand that mistaken identity, or whatever. If it was an enemy, they needed to be eliminated as soon as possible; she'd rather not lure an enemy to the only family she had left that had not been tainted by Galavan's influence or otherwise hostile plans.

Sylvia stopped at the closest gas station, backing up just enough where, if needed, she could high tail it over the curb and then get the fuck as far as possible from whomever was tail-gating. For a moment, she sat in her car. If this person was a foe, they'd likely come up to her car door when she least expected it, and try to kill her.

 _Unless_ …

Sylvia emitted a low, frustrated sigh.

Couldn't she have one day when nothing happened. Was there such a thing as a boring day in Gotham City. Obviously not.

Sylvia placed the engine in park, pulled out her key, and walked inside the gas station. She'd eventually have to stop somewhere; after all, she'd offered to make something, right? With nothing else in mind but bakery sweets, Sylvia opted to make a pie; apple pie seemed to suit most people's tastes, so apple she bought. She decided that she'd make it from scratch; after all, Lee loved cooking. What was a little bonding between her and her brother's girlfriend?

Because it worked so well for her the last time, Sylvia wondered cynically, thinking of Barbara.

Lee looked as though she wouldn't have a psychotic break any time soon. Then again, that's what she figured about Barbara and look where that got her.

Sylvia checked the items at the register, made small conversation with the cashier about apple goods, paid cash, and then she made her way back to the car. She noticed the vehicle that had been following her had parked exactly in the parking space beside hers.

What an idiot…

Sylvia gave it a once-over, noticing that there was no one in the car.

What the—

" _Don't move."_

Sylvia held her hands up, startled. The voice was gravelly, not one she recognized. The man (was it?) that had spoken moved closer to her.

"Whoever you are," said Sylvia carefully. "You'd be wise to just let me be and move on."

"I know who you are."

"Well, then you're stupid."

"Turn around."

Sylvia did as she was ordered, keeping her hands up. She saw a man wearing nothing more than a mask to protect his identity. He was tall, big-boned (much like the rest of Gotham, it seemed) and wore black sweats. The beady eyes that shone from the mask reminded her of an insect.

"Who am I?" Sylvia questioned cynically. "What's my name if you think you know who I am."

"I don't need to know _who_ you are. I only need to know _what_ you are."

"What the fuck are you even talking about?" She said callously. "You're a man in a fucking mask. You don't even have the balls to show your own face, never the less assume who or what I am."

"You're a talker, aren't you?"

"Look who's talking," Sylvia responded, gesturing to him. "I bet there aren't even any bullets in that gun of yours. Where'd you get it? From your grandma's purse?"

"Shut up—it's a real gun…." The man said, shaking the gun at her. "And you don't know a thing about my grandmother."

Sylvia raised her eyebrows, closed her eyes, thinking, 'Are we really doing this number…right now, seriously?'

"I'm taking this car! If you know what's good for you, you'll stay right there….and you won't move a _darn_ muscle."

"Oh for fuck sake. Just say 'damn'."

"That's right. Stay there. Don't move…easy now."

"Am I a fucking cat?" Sylvia said, glancing around. "What kind of animal are you talking to because it sure as hell isn't me!"

"I'm this close to putting one in your head, you stupid—"

Gabe came up from behind the growling man and knocked the man out with one hard punch to the face. Gabe watched him fall, and Sylvia lowered her hands to her sides.

"What the hell, Gabe? Why'd it take you so long?"

Gabe gaped at her: "You knew I was following you?"

"Of course, I knew. I know your car—and it's red. You know how many people get ticketed just by driving a red fucking car?"

"Well," said Gabe weakly, "You seemed like you knew what you were doing. Plus, I knew you'd be mad when you found out that I was following you."

"I don't even have to ask why."

"Good."

"But just to be sure, _tell me_ why."

"Sylvia, look. I had no choice."

"Gabriel." Sylvia warned.

Defeated, Gabe threw his hands down, bowed his head and muttered something that Sylvia couldn't understand.

"Louder."

"Penguin told me to," blurted Gabe, looking at her uneasily.

"Any reason why?"

"He's trying to protect you."

"Well, that's sweet. But we both know how this is going to end. I'm going to tell you that I can handle myself. You'll protest. And I will insist. You'll give up, go back home, and—"

"No."

Sylvia raised her eyebrows, walking towards him: "You wanna run that by me again?"

"The last time I left you alone, you ended up being at gunpoint with that ginger-haired maniac. I nearly got my ass handed to me."

"'Nearly'. And you didn't. Because I was there to intervene."

"To hell with that, man. I've seen what Penguin does when he gets bad news—he beat Stanley like he was a pillow full of feathers. I can't take a beating like that!" Gabe said fearfully. "You're not about to get out of my sight. No, thanks!"

Sylvia sighed, "Gabe. I'll be honest: I have a dinner date I have to go to, and there's no fucking way that Jim or anyone else there will want you there. It's going to be awkward enough as it is, so please, just do me a favor, and—"

"I can't go back now! You know what Penguin will do when I come back and you're not with me—or if something else happens to you? Hell no. Hell-to-the-no."

"First things first, don't talk like that again. Stop hanging around Henry and Marcy, that 'hell-to-the-no' crap is what they do. I'll hear it from them because they're young, but I'm not going to take it from you. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Second, don't interrupt me when I am talking. That's fucking rude."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Third and last but not least, you're not going anywhere. Oswald ordered you to follow me, correct?"

"Yeah."

"And you have, and you will. You'll stay by my car and wait by my car. You'll first go into this gas station, get a few snacks and drinks because it'll probably be a good hour or two hours before you're permitted to leave the vicinity of this car and because that's how long I imagine this dinner will last. Any comments or equivocations so far?"

"None."

"If I am in trouble, you'll probably hear the girls screaming and you'll hear me say **_GABE_** ," She screeched his name and he shuddered at the sound, then her voice returned to normal. "And after that, you'll dive into the apartment where, no doubt, you'll act out some hero-like or devil-like act of rescuing me, or—if it went badly—avenging my death."

Gabe looked at her, waiting for her to say more.

"All understood?" Sylvia gathered. "Is that something we can agree on?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Now..." She glanced at the body of the man who'd made a half-wit attempt of robbing her. "What are we going to do with _him_?"

"We can throw him in the trunk. Find out who sent him."

"No one sent him."

"What if Galavan—"

"Galavan's lackeys are smarter and more fashionably dressed than this fucker," said Sylvia, kicking the man's shoes that cost less than her shirt. "For all we know, he recognized me from the news, saw who I was, and thought he could get a few bucks off me."

Gabe shrugged, saying, "We could still probably get some information from him."

"Probably. At best, this piece of shit could likely have some information on at least where Galavan does his dirty work. At worst, he's a sad, lonely piece of shit who doesn't know how to curse worth a damn."

"Yeah, I thought that was kind of funny."

"Me too," said Sylvia, grinning broadly. "What do you wanna do?"

"You want _me_ to decide?" Gabe asked obliviously, pointing to himself.

"Why not? You seem like you know a few things."

He gaped at her, open-mouthed, speechless.

"Well?" Sylvia said, encouraging him. "What's your plan, Big Man? Throw him into the river? Rob him?"

"I think we should tie him up, throw him in the trunk and question him."

"Which trunk? Yours or mine?"

"Well, since your brother's a cop, I think we shouldn't chance it. Let's put him in my car."

"You're a smart fella," said Sylvia, smiling proudly at him. "I knew there's a reason I liked you."

Gabe looked as though he might shed a tear as he grinned at the compliment saying thoughtfully, "Wow. Thanks!"

He lifted the guy up and threw him none too gently in the back of his trunk. Sylvia watched him close and lock it.

"You know," said Gabe finally. "Now that I think about it—even if he doesn't have anything to say about Galavan and his sister, we can still tell Penguin this guy put you at gunpoint and tried to rob you."

"What would that accomplish? All it'll do is make Oswald angry."

"Yeah, but even _you_ gotta admit that you like seeing Penguin in action when he's all pissed off. It's always funnier when it's not happening to you."

She thought about that for a moment. A bloody Penguin, all wrapped up in emotion.

"You've got a point," considered Sylvia. "At best, even if we don't have anything, we still have entertainment. Good thinking, Gabriel!"

Gabe grinned proudly. It was, by far, the best moment of his life. Sylvia got into her car; Gabe sat in the driver's seat of his, and they gunned it down the highway to Lee's house.

As decided, Sylvia parked the car in front of Lee's house, noticing that no one else had arrived. Granted, none of them had really set a time for dinner—what was 'evening' after all? Four o'clock? Seven? When did this dinner actually begin? Supposedly no one knew.

Just dress up, show up, eat up, and maybe later, throw up (depending on how fresh the Fondue was later on in the day). As permitted, Gabe parked across the street, watching her until she walked into the house.

Sylvia was greeted by Lee in the same fashion she'd seen at the station. Apparently, Lee's outburst that Sylvia was insane for going along with Jerome at the gala had been overlooked, seeing as it was by her own will that Lee hadn't been stabbed in the face by Barbara Kean—Jerome had stopped her, all thanks to the deal that Jerome and Sylvia had struck only moments before. Or maybe, really, it was because Jerome didn't want the fun to start just as things were getting interesting.

Either way, her intentions had been made clear, even after the fact.

Lee welcomed Sylvia into her home, enlightened by the fact that Sylvia planned on baking the pie with her help. As expected, Lee pardoned the 'mess' that was the clean living room and kitchen because she hadn't expected anyone to arrive so early.

"It's odd. I normally arrive fashionably late to things so this is a nice change."

Sylvia mixed the apple filling before emptying the bowl into the crusted pan while Lee had started the fondue process. It didn't seem too hard, but Sylvia wasn't the cook: Mr. Bell was, by far, the better cook of the household. And when she did cook, it was normally meats and that kind of variety. Cheese just wasn't a go-to for evenings.

"How's work?" Sylvia asked, leaning against the counter as the pie baked in the oven.

"It's busy. Keeps me on my toes. What about you?"

Sylvia smiled at her. And Lee seemed to gather the reason why.

"I know what you do," Lee said, confronting the elephant in the room. "You either work with Penguin or for him. I don't know which, but Jim seems okay with it for the most part, so I guess I should be too."

"He's 'okay' with it?" Sylvia repeated incredulously. "That's definitely not the word I'd use."

"What word would you use?"

"He tolerates it. If anything, he ignores the fact."

"It's because he loves you."

"Is that the reason?"

"What else could it be? He's a detective in the Gotham Police Department."

"I'm aware."

"And the captain we have now is a by-the-book guy," Lee added.

"They're all like that," said Sylvia as she leaned her back against the counter. "Wait until your new captain stops being so green. Wait for him to see just how bad Gotham is."

"Well," said Lee courteously. "I can't say it's easy. Look how quick Jim became cynical. And you can tell he's trying hard not to be."

"You needn't be polite with me. We both know what you think about my choice of work."

"I don't know what you mean," Lee denied as she walked past Sylvia to retrieve the crock pots as well as the fancy dinner plates.

"You blame Jim's cynicism on my work, and on Penguin, and—if I'm not being too blunt here—myself, included. You think that Jim would have an easier time being an officer if the rest of us would just blend in with the background, become an easily ignorable white noise machine. If crime disappeared off the face of the earth, Jim wouldn't need to be a police officer anymore. His life wouldn't be in danger, and—ergo—neither would yours. The world, including Gotham, would become one of simplicity and sobriety."

Lee smiled despite herself, saying, "You certainly know how to read people."

"I learned from the best people."

"Jim?"

"Jim, Dad…I also learned it from the man you blame your problems on: Penguin."

"Sylvia, I don't mean to be rude," said Lee politely. "But it's not the work I blame things on. It's the people that cause the bad things to happen. You're wrong to think I blame Jim's cynicism on you; if anything, his optimism is the reason I have you to thank for that."

Sylvia laughed, "Now you're just being funny!"

"No, seriously," Lee insisted. "You should hear what he says about you—he's told me the stories about when you and him were kids, and all the funny things you all did when you were that age. He loves you a great deal, even looks up to you sometimes. I think something like that is hard to come by—especially with what you two deal with on a daily basis."

Sylvia crossed her arms and leaned over the counter towards Lee: "What kind of things does he say? I doubt any of them are true."

"Well, lots of things."

She pulled out of the refrigerator a thawed steak and potato wedges. She placed the steak in a pan; it started to sizzle; after the apple pie had finished baking, she pulled it out, placing it on the counter and replaced it with the potato wedges. She touched the pie gently, and said happily, "It looks so good, Sylvia—a true masterpiece!"

Sylvia watched her.

"Tell me something in particular." She offered.

Lee shrugged and sat at the dinner table, pulling a chair aside and placing one in front of her, indicating for Sylvia to take a seat. She did.

"Well," said Lee thoughtfully. "There's this one story where you and Jim were about five years old and you had a blanket you loved. And Jim had his own blanket he loved. At some point, some kid from the playground took his blanket and shredded it in some weird playground toy and he started crying, like bawl-baby crying." (Sylvia chuckled at the memory.) "And to stop Jim from crying, you cut _your_ blanket in half, and gave that half to him. And he stopped crying."

"Yeah, I fucking loved that blanket to death, too. The little dork."

Lee grinned.

"What else?"

"You all were teenagers, and some kid gave you a valentine's day card. Jim punched him in the face," Lee recollected.

"We were eight years old, not teenagers." Sylvia corrected.

"Well, Jim said you were teenagers."

"It'd have made more sense, then. Probably made him seem less edgy, so I can see why he said that."

""He seems protective of you."

"He's my older brother," said Sylvia, holding her hand up dismissively. "I think it's permissible."

"Clearly, it's not one-sided."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, he's told me a few times when you were protective of _him_."

"No, he hasn't," said Sylvia, calling her bluff.

Lee chuckled, "Wanna bet?"

"I'd lose that bet."

Lee said coyly, "He said there was one girl in class that liked him a lot, even tried to ask him out. You supposedly found out that this girl was a…Well, I don't know what he called it..."

"'A dick magnet'," Sylvia recalled. "She was three years older than him. And no good for him. He was Freshman; she was a Senior. And she was stupid."

"I thought he said she had very high marks..."

"She was also an easy target for anyone who had a tripod and fifteen minutes. Like I said: No good."

"What about me?"

"What _about_ you?"

"Do you think I'm good for him?" Lee questioned.

"You don't want to know what I think," Sylvia scoffed, getting to her feet.

Lee looked at her curiously: "I do, though. You're his sister."

"I'm also way too blunt for your own good," She warned. "If you want my opinion, ask Jim. He can tell you what I think."

"I don't want to hear it from him. I want to hear it from you," Lee said outright, looking at her readily. "If you have something bad to say about me, I'd like to hear it."

Sylvia gave her a small smile: "It's nothing bad."

Lee stood, saying, "Then why wouldn't I want to hear it?"

"Because I'm too perceptive of myself and others that I know that what I will say will come from a good place but come out in a not-so-good way."

"Tell me."

"It's too biased."

"Tell me anyway," Lee encouraged.

Sylvia said bluntly, "Fine then. You are probably the best person that Jim could be with. That being said, I absolutely despise you for it. You are what I've never been able to become, the woman that my entire family has always strived for me to be, and the type of person I have always _hated_ because I know—no matter what you do—there's always going to be a part of me that likes you."

"Why?" Lee asked.

"Because you're my brother's girlfriend."

Lee said politely, "Is that why you like Barbara?"

"Kinda. She and I share a history. A history that involves me running around and trying to protect her from people that worked for Fish, and a history of going back and forth between her and Jim, trying to solve their problems. Over time, she had become family. Once she and Jim were no longer together, she kinda cut ties with me."

"Did it hurt?"

"More than I care to admit, especially to someone like you," said Sylvia, aloof.

"So what I am hearing is that you don't want me to be with Jim because you'll like me, grow attached to me, and if or when things don't work out with Jim and me, you'll fear that I'll cut ties with you and I won't want to be your friend again?" Lee summarized.

Sylvia said quietly, "Are you _sure_ you're not a licensed psychologist?"

Lee said proudly, "I do good work."

"That, you do."

"Well, for what it's worth, I like you too," She said, smiling genuinely. "You have some confusing feelings, but they're not uncommon. If anything, I was afraid you didn't like me because I make Jim happy."

"That's stupid. I _want_ Jim to be happy."

"Well, you've got something of an overprotective-possessive vibe," said Lee, wiggling her finger at her. "Sometimes, you sincerely scare the shit out of me."

Sylvia laughed, "That's the first time I've heard her you swear!"

Lee smiled, a little embarrassed: "Well, you know."

Sylvia looked over her shoulder at the steak that was sizzling a little longer on its side; quickly, Lee grabbed a spatula and flipped it on its other side, happy to note that the house hadn't burned down.

"Now that the mushy wushy stuff is out the window, how about we get things revved up for when Ed and Kristen come?"

"What's your music preference?"

"Whatever makes my foot tap."

Sylvia smiled, saying, "Me too!"

She turned on the stereo, and the two women started bee-bopping to 'Girls Wanna Have Fun'.

The steak was grilled; the pie was in the refrigerator; the cheese fondue was approaching maximum tasting overdrive; and the wine drinking would soon begin. It wasn't long before Ed and Kristen joined the party, equally happy to see that Sylvia was in attendance.

"I didn't think you were going to be here," Ed said, enlightened.

"Well, Jim offered me to come along. It's the least I could do." Sylvia replied.

Kristen greeted her (surprisingly) with a hug and Sylvia returned it halfway.

She didn't know Kristen Kringle that well, but she was grateful that it didn't stop the records custodian from the extroverted approach. The music stereo was on fire, with a hopping song and while Lee was bee-bopping to this song as well, Sylvia took a seat with Ed on the couch, both of them watching Lee and Kristen dance like girls at a sleepover.

"Looks like things are going well between you two," Sylvia noted, looking at Ed. "I like this confident side of you. Where have you been hiding him?"

Ed said mysteriously, "Honestly, he's been there the entire time. It was just a matter of allowing him to take control."

"That's an interesting take on it. Kristen seems to like it."

"That's true," said Ed, smiling widely.

"Get up here," Kristen encouraged, gesturing to Ed. "Come dance with me!"

"I'm afraid I'm no good at—"

"Go on, Ed. Go _dance_ with her," Sylvia coaxed, pushing him forward.

He tripped forward, smiling modestly at Kristen before he started doing the Vogue, and, shortly after, the Sprinkler. Sylvia raised her eyebrows, quite certain Kristen might wonder just _who_ she was with until she started laughing and doing the same thing.

Sylvia made a face of odd satisfaction—there was a pot for every kettle, evidently. She bypassed the next song, preferring a drink rather than a song.

She heard her phone go off. Sylvia glanced at it, seeing a single text message from Oswald:

' _I love you_ '

Sylvia smiled at it, and sent one back to him:

' _I love you too._ '

She half-expected a heart-emoji, oddly surprised that she expected anything else from him. He wasn't one for sending text messages; then again, she was sure that he was in a mood after their brief encounter, half-hoping he could pull her away from the situation and back to the mansion.

Sylvia poured four glasses of wine, including one for herself. She placed them on four coasters, respecting Lee's pride of a stainless glass coffee table.

The music had moved into something of a classical piece. They all took a seat on the couch.

"So," said Kristen, "What kind of things do you do, Sylvia?"

Sylvia said lightly, "That's an interesting question to start things off."

"Well, we're biding our time, waiting for Jim to come. Shouldn't we know a few things about each other since it appears we're going to be doing this more than once?"

"Perhaps," Ed offered congenially, "it's best that we talk about something else _other_ than work. We spend so much time at work as it is, I doubt any of us want to talk about that."

"You have a point," Kristen said, nodding. She turned to Lee, saying, "Where do you buy your clothes? They're beautiful."

As Lee answered the question, Sylvia turned to Ed and mouthed, "Thank you."

He mouthed back, "You're welcome", along with a knowing smile.

One awkward encounter of what would likely be many more to come. In the time that followed, it was apparent that Jim was going to be late.

"He has a habit of running late," Lee admitted openly with a small smile.

"He's a Detective," said Kristen, nodding. "He probably gets tied up in something every week."

"Every day of every week. I find it hard to find one boring day in Gotham."

"The crime level is so high these days."

A beat passed.

Kristen glanced at Sylvia saying quickly, "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean any disrespect."

"None taken," said Sylvia, raising her hands. "You're not wrong."

"Part of it has to do with that Jerome fella," Kristen guessed. "Things haven't been quite the same since he ransacked the GCPD. I haven't had a decent moment since then. Or ever now that I think about it. How do you deal with it, Sylvia?"

"What do you mean?"

"How do you deal with this chaotic thing—crime must be such a common thing in your place of work. What with the robberies...and especially after the police raided that Count House."

"It has nothing to do with me. Just another one of those things that was going to happen eventually."

"Ever find out who tipped them off?" Kristen asked, tilting her head to the side.

"Nope," said Sylvia, drinking her first glass down to the last drop. "But rest assured, I'm tracking it."

Ed leaned in, inquisitively, "I could help if you needed a puzzle figured out."

"Ed!" Kristen said, half-joking, half-serious, "We're talking about a _crime_. And...and I'm sure Sylvia is more than credible to find the person herself without your help. Isn't that right, Sylvia?"

Sylvia said to Ed politely, "Thanks, but no thanks. I prefer things be in-house if you don't mind."

"Well," said Lee bravely, "This is already turning out to be an interesting evening."

"Do you like your sort of business?" Kristen asked Sylvia.

"What kind of a question is that? If I didn't like it, I wouldn't very well be doing it, would I?"

"Detective Gordon made it sound like you hadn't any choice _but_ to do it," She explained, gesturing to the door as though Jim would burst in. "I mean, he made it sound like you were trapped."

Sylvia smirked at Lee, saying to her, "See, when I said that he might be talking badly about me, _this_ is what I was expecting."

"I doubt she meant it in a bad way," Ed offered politely.

"Well, it doesn't sound 'good'." Sylvia returned indignantly.

"You're someone who's regularly involved in criminal activities," Kristen pointed out. "This _can't_ be the first time you're hearing this conversation."

"Ohh…'kay…." Lee muttered uncomfortably.

"If it wasn't for me," Sylvia said with forced calm, "Crime would be a lot more primitive."

Kristen smiled a hard smile: "If it wasn't for you, I think crime would be _less_ primitive. I don't know how Gordon handles it, knowing what you're capable of and yet still acting like you're the victim. You're not the victim of the circumstance, you're a part of it."

Sylvia looked at her and said with a sarcastic smile, "Well. I can certainly see why Dougherty beat the shit out of _you_."

"Sylvia!" Ed and Lee gasped.

" _What_? I'm not wrong. I want nothing more than to punch her in her face."

Kristen looked affronted, for she had good reason to be. However, Sylvia wasn't done.

"I feel like punching you in the face, but not because you're wrong—because, don't get me wrong, you're absolutely correct. But I'm not a victim as Jim says. But, before you go off on another wonderful tangent, Miss Kringle, perhaps you should realize that I never once said _I_ was the victim."

"Sylvia..." Lee began in an effort to calm her down.

Sylvia continued harshly, "What's more is that I am not ' _trapped_ ' in my own design of crime—or trapped in anything, for that matter; in fact, I revel in it. Frankly, I have committed a dozen of acts that you would not be able to wrap your pretty little head around. And I'm not pissed because you're right; I'm pissed because you have to sound like you're better than anyone in this room because you cannot _believe_ how bad the crime rate is in this town. News flash, _Kristen_. It's always been bad—I know it because I grew up in it. But you couldn't see that until Jerome Valeska ransacked your beloved GCPD and put a fucking bullet in your captain's head."

"Liv!" Ed started, placing a protective arm around Kristen.

"Now," said Sylvia, who had slowly gotten to her feet and in Kristen's face, "tell me. Are _you_ the victim because you had to experience such trauma like everybody else, or are you the creator of your own traumatic experience because you were too fucking stupid to realize that Jerome Valeska is only one of the several hundred lunatics that victimize people every single fucking day?"

Kristen cast her eyes downward, an instinct that she'd not been born with, but had learned. Probably from Flass or Dougherty. Sylvia recognized the beaten look; she'd seen it one too many times from Tiffany. Sylvia stepped back, realizing she'd basically verbally slapped Kristen across the face and she took a long breath.

"I'm sorry," Kristen whispered.

Sylvia looked at her broken expression. Then at Ed, who gave her a dirty look. She glanced at Lee, who tried to say something.

"This was a bad idea," Sylvia muttered. "I'm sorry."

"Sylvia..." Lee began, getting to her feet. "Sylvia, wait…"

"No. I'm sorry. I can't."

"Don't leave," said Kristen, getting quickly to her feet. "I'm sorry. It's _my_ fault."

Sylvia stared at her: "Why the hell are _you_ apologizing to _me_?"

Kristen shrugged, "I don't know. I feel like I have to."

"You don't have to apologize. It is I who must say I'm sorry. Not you. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry. Look…." She placed a gentle hand on Kristen's shoulder. "I get what you're trying to say. I'm sorry for how I reacted when you were just expressing your opinion."

"I could have said it differently," offered Kristen.

Sylvia frowned: "You've thought of every excuse that way you can make it sound like it was your fault, haven't you?"

Kristen looked at her, surprised.

"If it's not _your_ fault," said Sylvia sternly, "it's _not_ your fault. Simple. Is all."

Kristen looked at her reproachfully.

"I have a friend who's a battered wife. You have her same habits."

Kristen smiled in spite of herself: "Well, you're rude…but you're perceptive, I give you that."

"Please, stay." Lee offered.

"I really can't. Once Jim comes over, I think the entire roof will fall off the house. Mixing police work and crime is like water and oil."

Kristen thought for a second: "They don't mix."

"My point exactly."

She glanced at her phone; there was a voicemail from Oswald. She hadn't even heard her phone ring!

"Is that work calling?" Ed asked, gesturing to the phone.

"More or less. Maybe another time, yeah?"

"Sure, sure," said Lee, nodding earnestly.

"Thanks. I'll see you later."

She hugged Ed, who returned it, as well as Lee and Kristen.

"Phew," sighed Lee. "Anyone else ready for their first glass of wine!"

Both Ed and Kristen raised their hands.

**Chapter 29: People Notice**

The mansion was quiet.

No foot falls. No murmurs.

Just quiet.

Sylvia placed her purse on the coffee table in the living room, steadily looking around. Odds are, Tiffany and Henry had gone back to the club now that Tiffany was a little more healed after the Galavan ambush. Dagger and Chilly were patrolling the outside of the mansion—she'd seen them on her way in.

But still….so quiet. And if things were as they seemed, why did Sylvia's heart race too quickly, and her breathing become shallow? The hairs on her neck stood on end. And she listened closely, not moving her body but only her eyes.

It _was_ abnormally quiet, and oddly dark.

Suddenly, two large tree-trunk arms wrapped around her shoulders, locking her in. Sylvia inhaled sharply. Who was it—she didn't know, but she would give them hell to pay for coming up behind her like that.

She made a hard kick to their shins—they grunted, but didn't let her go.

She and the intruder were struggling, trying to get the upper hand. This fella had a strong sense of balance; he wouldn't be thrown off easily.

Instead, she'd counteract his weight with her own.

Nimble and quick, Sylvia ducked, slipping out of the man's grasp.

While he was disarmed, she grabbed his shoulders, brought his face down on her knee, hard.

And again.

And _again_.

He grunted, fell over, holding his nose. Panting, Sylvia darted towards the nearest light switch, turned it on, and pulled her gun out, aiming it at the intruder.

With the light on, Sylvia's fear was extinguished when she saw who it was.

It was Mr. Bell.

He groaned, sitting upright, and rubbed his ankle where she'd hit him initially; blood ran profusely down his lip, nose, and chin from where she'd struck him with her knee. Seeing him, Sylvia scoffed, lowering her gun.

"What the _hell_ were you trying to accomplish!"

Mr. Bell stood to his feet, staggering a little, to sit in favor of the couch. He rubbed his jaw and despite the blood that tainted his otherwise white teeth, he grinned.

"It was a test."

"A test?" Sylvia said skeptically.

"Yes."

"Well, did I fucking pass?"

"With flying colors, but that still begs me to wonder just why exactly you've been missing our lessons."

"First things first, where's Oswald?"

"He retired early," Mr. Bell informed, gesturing to the Meeting Room. His eyes flickered around her. "Where's Gabriel?"

"After I came home, I sent him to the bar. He earned it."

"I don't see his car."

"He took mine."

"Why on Earth did he take yours?"

"Well, Mr. Bell, this provides a perfect segue. I need your help," said Sylvia, rattling Gabe's car keys in her hand. "On my way to my dinner date with my brother and his girlfriend, a half-wit tried to rob me. I have him in Gabe's trunk, ready to question." She grinned, offering him the keys. "You used to interrogate terrorists, right?"

Mr. Bell rubbed his face with the back of his hand, sniffling the rest of the blood that had started to dry.

"You're right. But I've not been that man for quite some time."

A glint of mischief twinkled in Sylvia's eyes as she said mischievously, "You have a look of nostalgia, Mr. Bell. You _miss_ those days."

"They _were_ good days."

"And you miss them," said Sylvia knowingly. "It's why you like our lessons so much, and..." (She rattled the car keys.) "...From the stories you've told me, you miss those days very much, and you wish you could relive them once again."

A sentimental smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Proving that she was right.

"Want to have a go then?" She asked, gesturing to the door with her thumb. "The fella's in the trunk right now."

"Knocked out?"

"Initially, yeah, but it's been a couple of hours. He should be wide awake. _Screaming_ , in fact."

Practically, Mr. Bell raised his head, but lowered his eyelids, peering at Sylvia from underneath him. Eager, but logical.

He said in such a matter-of-fact tone, "What are you looking to get out of him?"

"Anything and everything, Mr. Bell," said Sylvia, grinning widely. "For all we know, he knows shit. Just a common, garden-variety thief who saw who I was and wanted some money. Or, best-case scenario, he knows what Galavan's aim is and we'll find some useful information to use against the prick that's holding my mother-in-law hostage. So, what do you say, Mr. Bell? You up for some midnight fun?"

Mr. Bell gathered himself to a stand, smiling as he said lowly, "It would be my absolute pleasure, milady."

"Figured you'd say that," Sylvia said, tossing Mr. Bell the keys; he caught them. "He's in the trunk. You can bring him inside, if you want, or leave him be. Doesn't really matter to me."

Mr. Bell strode towards the door, then curiously stopped as he turned to her.

"Where _have_ you been going these past few days?"

She gave him a stern expression.

"I know my place. I know what I can ask and what I ought not to inquire, but the rest of the staff are starting to doubt your allegiance."

"Let them doubt."

"Is that wise?"

"Probably not. But I can assure you that I've not been banging anyone behind Oswald's back, and I've not turned against him. What I am planning is something that will keep us safe, Mr. Bell. And that's all you need to know. At least, for now."

"Of course. I was just making sure you are not being threatened, is all."

"Galavan has my mother-in-law locked in some cage," said Sylvia darkly. "I'm threatened every day."

Mr. Bell touched her shoulder comfortingly then he said softly, "I will do what I can to find out what he knows about Galavan, if anything."

He left through the door.

Sylvia watched after him, then she moved throughout the house just as quietly as she'd moved before. She took a shower, applied vanilla lotion, and an hour later, she walked into the bedroom where she saw Oswald sleeping under the blankets. His soft whimpers from under the sheets made Sylvia curious; she sat on the edge of the bed, watching him stir uncomfortably, like he was having a bad dream.

She smiled in spite of herself—he reminded her of a puppy, having a nightmare. All wriggly and pitiful. Sylvia crawled into bed, sitting up; she gathered his shoulders and moved him to her so his head laid in her lap.

Gently, softly, Sylvia sang the sweet lullaby:

" _The fire has gone out, wet from snow above_

_But nothing will warm me more, than my, my mother's love._

_I light another candle, dry the tears from my face._

_Nothing can protect me more than my mother's warm embrace_

_The path ahead is dark, so dark I cannot see_

_But I will not fear 'cause my mother looks over me."_

Oswald slowly stopped wriggling, his body relaxed, and he let out a sigh of relief.

"Sweet baby."

It was the same lullaby that Gertrud had sang to her while she was in a coma, and it'd woken her up. Seeing as it was the same that she had sung to Oswald when he wanted to feel better, Sylvia felt very accomplished in helping him rest.

Sylvia took her phone from the back of her pocket, glancing at the screen. Oswald had left her a voicemail—that hadn't been a simple fib to get out of the most awkward double dinner date known to man. As the subject of her affections returned to a deeper sleep than in the state she had found him, Sylvia placed the phone to her ear and listened to the voicemail.

"Pigeon, I...I don't know why I called you," Oswald's voice sounded not exactly slurred, but like he'd been drinking a _lot._ "I don't even know what I was going to say if I did. I just like hearing your voice, even if it's telling me to leave a message after the tone." (There was some fumbling around in the background, rustling of clothes...was he getting ready for bed?) "I love you, Sylvia. You've been gone….wait, wait, someone's at the door…."

Sylvia listened close. Her heart rate picked up a sec.

Then she heard him say "For fuck's sake, what is it, Butch? I told you I was turning in for the night…" Then there was discussion that Sylvia couldn't hear, and after whatever Butch said, Oswald sighed in resignation: "I'll see you when you get home, Sylvia. I love you."

Sylvia placed her phone back in her jeans. For the first time in their relationship, Oswald had drunk-dialed her. And that was just too fucking adorable.

Who knew how long he'd been under the sheets, rustling the covers in this nightmare? But, since his overall disposition had changed to one of tranquility, Sylvia slowly moved him from her lap, and placed the covers around him, tucking him in. As she kissed his cheek, a soft tapping of knuckles on the door frame grabbed her attention.

It was Butch.

He motioned for her to come over; she nodded and gave him a gesture that said 'one moment'. He stepped aside from the doorway as she came over the threshold, silently closing the door with a soft _click_.

"What?" Sylvia asked lightly.

"We need to talk."

"Talk about what?"

He gestured for her to follow. She did so, assuming that this conversation was better left out of earshot from a sleeping Penguin. As she followed him into the Meeting Room, he spoke.

"Galavan's sister came by," said Butch, glancing at the door from where they'd just come.

"For what reason?"

"She gave Penguin some addresses to burn to the ground."

"Arson?" Sylvia quipped; she sat down in a chair, running her hands over the table. "How many places?"

"Five."

"Five in one night?"

Butch nodded.

"Wow," said Sylvia coolly. "She's ambitious. Have anyone in mind that could do the deed right the first time?"

"I do."

"Know where they live?"

"Yeah."

"Then why do you need my help?" asked Sylvia, before relaxing back into the chair. "You seem to know what you're doing; you don't need a babysitter."

"I'm not asking for your help," said Butch, slightly irritated. "I said we need to talk."

"Fine. Talk."

Butch seemed to register that Sylvia was capping her own annoyance with Galavan and his sister. Her snippy remarks and standoffish responses were a great hint to the fact, but despite everything, he could understand that sort of stress that she was under. Butch placed his hands on the back of a chair, knuckles tightened, as he stood opposite of her.

"Has the boss been showing signs of paranoia around you?"

"No more than he normally shows," Sylvia said lightly. "Galavan has his mother locked up like some sort of animal. Count House was raided and we don't know who it was that did it. I say he's got plenty of stuff to be paranoid about, but I'm guessing you're talking about something more than that."

She leaned forward, grabbing the bowl of peanuts that were on the table, and pulled them to her; she took a few and munched on them.

"He seems extra paranoid—more than usual," said Butch, glancing at her handful of peanuts and her in general. "He mentioned having trouble finding a trustworthy arsonist."

"But you said you knew someone who'd get the job done. So, ergo, you must have someone you know is trustworthy."

"I know where they are," He said defensively. "I just doubt they'll welcome me with open arms."

"Why's that?"

"They're Fish loyalists."

"Fish is dead."

"I know that. But they're hoping she'll come back."

"She _might_ come back."

"I was there. She's not coming back."

"Well, I was there too," said Sylvia pointedly. "And Fish is a fighter. If she comes back, she'll do it in a way none of us will be able to ignore her. Personally, Butchy-ole-pal, I think you're hoping she _will_ come back. Being in love with her, that sort of thing."

Butch sighed, closing his eyes.

"So, these people you're wanting to hire. They're Fish Loyalists. So find someone who is close to them, and get them to vouch for you."

"I have someone in mind."

"So, find him."

"Her."

"So, find _her_ ," said Sylvia, gesturing to Butch apathetically. "You don't need my permission to do your job."

"I'm not asking your permission."

"Then what are we talking about here?" She questioned tiredly. "Because so far" (She counted on her fingers) "We've talked about Tabitha, the Arson job, paranoia, Fish, and so far this conversation seems like it could have been a phone call or an email. So, Butch—tell me what's on your mind..."

"It's Selina Kyle."

"The kid?"

"She's more than a kid."

"Oh, I know. I believe you. But she lives here and there—last I saw her, she was living at Barbara Kean's place, but that's been some several months ago. Before that, she was working with Fish and had us all hanging in the garage by our wrists. You were there. Anyway, find her in the Narrows, I guess."

"She won't greet me with open arms, you know."

"So give her a reason _to_ welcome you," said Sylvia, popping another peanut in her mouth. "Money seems to be a good motivator for people. Bring enough though."

"Point taken."

"So, do you wanna tell me why we're really talking?" Sylvia asked, getting to her feet.

"What other reason could there be?"

"Come on, Butch. There's more to you than what meets the eye. You're not nearly as thick as you seem, so lay it on me. What's really going on in that skull of yours?" Sylvia questioned, leaning forward, and bracing her hands on the edges of the long table.

Butch narrowed his eyes at her, like he was suspicious of her possibly having mind-reading abilities. Then again, it wasn't lost on him that she was really good at reading people.

"How are you doing?" Butch asked lightly.

Taken aback, Sylvia stared at him.

"In what aspect?"

"I mean it," said Butch, gesticulating to her sincerely. "You know. How are you doing?"

"As well as possible."

"You seem calm about this whole thing..."

"What thing?"

"Starting fires, killing mayoral candidates…" Butch said lazily.

"Arson isn't a big deal for me. I lit myself on fire during a performance. I like fire. I find it odd that you've not asked _me_ to destroy any of these addresses. Wouldn't be hard. Five places in one night is a Party Night. It could take four people to do it, in one night, but personally, give me about 12 hours, and they'll be smoldering."

"Penguin specifically said you're not on the list to hire," said Butch cautiously.

"Typical, but I'm not surprised."

"He's protecting you."

"I know," said Sylvia smoothly. "I'm well aware. And in return, I'm doing my best to protect him."

"Is that why you've been sneaking off every morning for the past week?" Butch questioned, quirking an eyebrow.

"I guess I've not done very well at sneaking off to anywhere. A lot of people seemed to have noticed."

"Well, you're the Queen of Gotham," said Butch practically. "People don't care to see a peasant walking out of the mansion at 4 in the morning, but you can be rest assured we notice when royalty leaves that early."

Sylvia crossed her arms and leaned her back against the fireplace. Butch looked at her more closely.

"You're doing something," He said knowingly. "Plotting."

"I'm doing nothing of the sort."

"Come on, Liv. I know you."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, turning so she faced the fireplace; its embers had long been burned down to its soft, flickering glow but she stared into its molten depths as though it would give her the subtle distraction she needed.

Butch moved around the table, and leaned a shoulder against the fireplace.

"I know you back when you were working for Fish," He reminded her. "You're good about hiding stuff then, and you're good at hiding stuff now. But you've been up to something—we all can see it...even that little umbrella boy of yours—what's his name..."

"Josh," Sylvia said coolly.

"Yeah," said Butch, gesturing to her. "He knows something too. But he won't say nothing—he's pretty committed to hiding whatever it is you've got going on. I can help you if you want."

"You're brainwashed."

Butch looked offended: "I gotta do whatever Penguin says, sure. But where you're concerned..." He didn't finish, but Sylvia's expression softened.

He touched her shoulder.

"Tell me what you're up to," said Butch earnestly.

She hesitated.

Butch said plainly, "Your husband"—He glanced warily at the bedroom door before turning back to look at her—"is an emotional wreck. He's paranoid, and looks like an egg that's ready to crack. You don't trust your people, so how 'bout you start trusting someone who knows a little something about playing a hand?"

She considered his words.

"I'm keeping us safe. If I can't tear out Tabitha's eyes or kill her brother, I'll play Defense. Since, obviously, Offense is out of the question. And I can't sit here and do nothing while Galavan does whatever he wants."

Butch smiled sadly, "I can see you're trying."

"Trying is half the battle. 'Doing' is what wins the war."

"And what are you 'doing' every morning?"

"Building."

"Building what?"

"Safe houses," she admitted, lowering her arms. "I'm providing means of a safe haven."

"This mansion is your safe haven," said Butch confusedly. "You have guards at every door, inside and out."

"But people come in whenever they feel like it—Tabitha, included. That's not a safe haven, Butch. That's business."

"Wanna tell me where they are?" Butch asked, furrowing his eyebrows. "I can probably make them safer. Get a few people out there to watch these places for you."

"No."

Butch looked surprised.

Sylvia smiled apologetically saying, "No one knows where these safe houses are, except for me. Not even Oswald knows. And, for the time being, I want it to stay that way. Galavan is taking steps to control this city—the Underworld, the GCPD—and if I can't keep this empire safe, I need to make sure there is at least one place Oz and I can go to if it crumbles beneath our feet."

"And you think that your people would betray you—give your hideout away?" Butch inquired kindly.

"I don't know what they would do."

"And, I'm guessing, you can't trust _me_? That's what it sounds like you're saying."

"You're right. I can't trust you. Not completely."

"But you've seen it—I have to do whatever Penguin says. So I can't betray you."

"You've been brainwashed. If someone can fix you, Butch, someone _else_ can fix you again. And not for the best."

"It sounds like you're becoming paranoid too."

"Call it 'overt caution'," Sylvia remarked, grinning in spite of herself. "If there's one thing I can pride myself on, it's _that_. Now, if I were you, I'd find Selina, find your fire bugs, and then get to work."

Butch started to leave, but he turned on his foot.

"Liv."

Sylvia looked at him expectantly. He seemed to reconsider after a moment, saying, "Never mind."

He walked off. Sylvia looked after him, curious.

**Chapter 30: A Run-In With Capt Barnes**

"Stay on your guard, Sylvia!" Mr. Bell shouted.

Sylvia glared up at him from her back, having been tripped five times in a single go. She wore black sweats and a gray tank top; he wore all black, sweats from head to toe.

"If you'd shut up, I would be able to concentrate!"

"Oh please, one comment about your mother, and you let your anger take over," said Mr. Bell curtly. He held out a hand to her; grumpily, she took it.

"My mother wasn't a saint; that was a given, but she was certainly not a whore."

"I was _trying_ to provoke you," said Mr. Bell, smirking at her. "And, clearly, it worked."

"Shut up!"

"Make me," said Mr. Bell, shaking his fists at her. "Put me in my place, Sylvia. Show what you got! The only way you're gonna make me shut up is if you come over and do it yourself!"

Sylvia snarled, and ran towards him, wicked fast.

She jumped, climbing him like a tree, nimble and quick.

Her thighs constricted around his neck, turning his face purple; Mr. Bell maintained a certain calm though.

He grabbed her legs and threw her off him.

Sylvia grunted when her face met the concrete.

"You may be spry," said Mr. Bell, rubbing his neck. "But if you do the same move over and over, people will pick up on it, and learn to get out of that python grip of yours."

He suddenly lunged for her; Sylvia rolled away on her side, getting to her feet.

"Use my weight against me! I move slower."

"You move _faster_ ," Sylvia corrected, glaring at him from her back as she rubbed her shoulder. "And for the record, _you've_ been trained."

"That's just an excuse!" Mr. Bell laughed. "I've shown you what I know, Sylvia, and you're lacking in discipline. You want to put me down, you'll find the will. You'll find the way! Now, do as I say, and _put_ " (he grabbed her by the hair, yanking it back) " ** _me_** " (his other hand grabbed her throat) " **down**!"

He lifted her up, all the way up so her feet dangled. Sylvia's fingernails dug into his wrist; her face started turning colors, and her feet kicked.

"If you don't fight me," Mr. Bell threatened, "I _will_ kill you."

Sylvia whimpered, "I can't breathe!"

"Don't think about that. Think about _escape_."

"I can't—I can't breathe!" Sylvia gasped; she clawed at his wrist.

"THINK!"

Sylvia looked at him fearfully. He held her up, watching her writhe in pain. She was a baited worm on a hook; he was the fisherman. How could she possibly get out of this mess!

Mr. Bell's face flickered with disappointment. That was until she let go of him and brought her fingers to his eyes.

She plunged her thumbnails into them; immediately, he let her go. When he did, he stumbled.

Sylvia grabbed his legs so he tripped and fell onto his back.

She gasped for air, inhaling deeply.

But she'd learned.

So, she didn't stop there.

She straddled his chest, then started pummeling his face.

His face was a bloodied pulp by the time she finished, and tore herself away. Sylvia stood weakly to her feet, breathing heavily.

Mr. Bell groaned, slowly sitting up.

"Better," He praised. "Much...much better."

"Glad you think so," Sylvia panted.

She left him sitting on the concrete pad, walking through the mansion.

She showered then stepped out, wearing a knee-length black skirt, and an off-the-shoulder black, long-sleeve shirt. As she came through the living room, her heeled boots clicked across the linoleum. Sylvia pulled her hair in a long ponytail, holding down the fly-aways with a black headband. Winged eyeliner, black mascara, and aqua eyeshadow for the eyes; nude pink balm for the lips.

The Merc had been hit, raided—hence the reason why Jim had come late to the double-date. Her people wouldn't be interrogated in regards to the weapon-house, but she was certain Jim would be coming to her for answers. The arsonists that Butch had found had done their job beautifully, so well that they'd attracted the attention of the GCPD.

As a premise, Sylvia made strawberry cheesecake bites, placing them in a container with a red bow. As she strolled to her car, she saw Josh sitting on the step of the mansion, waiting for her. She tilted her head for him to follow; he did so with a large smile on his face.

On the way there, Josh glanced at Sylvia's neck. There was a considerable red bruise from where Mr. Bell had held her up by the throat, but she looked as though it was nothing more than a scratch.

"So..." said Josh slowly. "That was something of a lesson between you two."

"Yes, it was."

"Why was it so much more...I don't know…brutal?"

Sylvia returned gently, "It's just a lesson. No more brutal than the others."

"But he almost killed you."

"Yes, he did."

Josh blinked: "And that doesn't scare you?"

"Being on the brink of death makes a person realize just how strong they really are," said Sylvia lightly. "It's amazing how strong you become when being 'strong' is all you have left. And Mr. Bell knows that. He's been in that situation several times."

"But…He almost killed you."

"Yes. But he didn't. And _that's_ the lesson."

"Why are you learning all of this?"

"To better myself."

"The martial arts, the sign language he's been teaching you, building safe houses," Josh mumbled. "Sounds like you're becoming paranoid, Sylvia."

"I want to be prepared. You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs."

"But this isn't going overboard?" Josh asked, glancing at the bruise on her neck. "You're doing a lot to yourself. Aren't you afraid that one day you'll go too far with this preparation stuff and kill yourself?"

She nodded: "It's occurred to me before, but...I think the price might be worth it."

"What's your endgame?"

She looked at him, smiling gently when she saw that he was worried.

"I want to be my own weapon. I don't want to rely on guns, on minions, on anyone but myself."

"Is it because of Galavan?"

"No, son. This has been a goal of mine for a long time. Before Penguin became King of Gotham. Once I started working for Fish, I knew what I wanted."

"And what is that?"

"I never want to be someone's weakness," said Sylvia, glaring inadvertently at the traffic. "I never want to be used as leverage, blackmail, or anything like that."

"People say that you're Penguin's weakness."

"Maybe so...but you don't see _me_ trapped in a cage."

"You want to make it so Penguin doesn't have to worry about you being used against him?" Josh asked, looking at her curiously.

"Precisely. And so far, I think I've been pretty successful."

"One would think."

Sylvia glanced at Josh before returning her eyes to the traffic. His somber tone struck her. She parked at the GCPD station, turning off the ignition, then looked at him completely.

"Got something on your mind, champ?"

Josh looked at her, hesitating. Then he said quietly, "You're Penguin's wife. We _all_ see the way he looks at you….and the way you look at him. You don't want to be the reason for his downfall, but you have the power _to_ be his downfall. If you left him, you'd weaken him in a way no enemy like Galavan could ever weaken him. You'd break him."

Josh shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"And I think Penguin _knows_ you have that power..." He continued. "In a way, you being with him makes him weak already. So, wouldn't it be best to just...I don't know...cut ties, and cut off the weak link before it happens?"

Sylvia patted his shoulder.

"You don't say much, kid. But when you do, it's worth listening to. You see a lot. And you're right, I suppose. But what I am to Oswald, he is to me as well. Do you want to come in with me?"

"Nah, I'm fine here."

"As you prefer," Sylvia noted, nodding to him. "Lock the doors, don't talk to strangers—that sort of deal."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Key's still in the ignition if you want to listen to music."

"Thanks!"

Sylvia strolled into the GCPD; the Desk Sergeant there didn't even have to ask. After taking the strawberry cheesecake bites, he pointed up at the balcony where Jim was sitting. Sylvia thanked him as usual and headed upstairs.

She didn't get very far.

" _You_."

Sylvia turned to see Captain Nathaniel Barnes, in the flesh. He was a wide man, probably because of both fat and muscle. His head was shiny and bald, and his eyes were icy—or maybe that's because he was glaring daggers at her.

"Me." Sylvia returned, gesturing to herself. "Hiya, Cap'n."

"You have _some_ nerve walking in here," said Barnes, looking at her coldly. "What's your business?"

"Family." Sylvia returned, pointing to Jim who stood on the balcony; sensing the tension, Jim was already on his way down.

"You're the _Penguin's_ wife! There's no penguin in here."

"I'm also Detective Gordon's _sister_. I could tell you more about my profile, if you want, but I'm afraid we just don't have that kind of time."

"Maybe, you've come to confess?"

"Confess to what?"

"The Merc, or the fires—"

"Oh, sorry, you must have been misinformed," Sylvia noted gently, smirking at him. "I don't have anything to do with the Merc. Recently, the place has been going rogue—doesn't follow orders, play by the rules, or anything of that variation. Personally, I've been hoping you all would raid and close up that shop; it's been a pain in the ass for a few years, even when Falcone was running things."

"Captain..."

Sylvia and Barnes glanced over to see Jim. He made his way over, just in record time; it looked as though Barnes would detonate. In a way to smooth things over, Jim did introductions.

"Captain, this is Sylvia. Sylvia, Captain Barnes..."

"I know who he is," Sylvia said dismissively, eyes flickering to Barnes. "Nice raid on the Count House, Captain."

"Now, I _know_ you're in the loop on that one," Barnes accused, wagging a finger at her. "That's Penguin's territory. So, if I've been told correctly, that's _your_ territory too."

Sylvia shrugged: "So what if it is?"

That set Barnes off like a nuke.

" _So what if it is_? That means you're an accomplice! That means you're _guilty_! And we could interrogate you—"

"Well," scoffed Sylvia. "Technically, I think that's what you've been doing since we met…" She looked at Jim. "Do you care if we talk for a moment?"

Jim nodded, glancing at Barnes.

"Detective Gordon—"

"I've got it, Cap. Trust me."

Barnes rolled his eyes deeply before Jim took her arm and pulled her into an empty office. He closed the door, then offered her a seat; Sylvia sat.

"Already making waves," said Jim, shaking his head. "Vee, you gotta be careful."

"Well, _he_ came up to me. And not so politely, either."

"Well, he knows what you are."

"I'm flattered."

Jim gave her a stern look while Sylvia shrugged, holding her hands up in the air in surrender. He sat at the desk; Sylvia looked at him from across the furniture.

"Why'd you come here?" asked Jim tiredly.

"To apologize."

"For?"

"I left the dinner before you arrived," said Sylvia smoothly. "After that spectacular show of begging you did for me, I felt bad for leaving the way I did."

"Yeah," said Jim slowly. "Lee mentioned you were explosive."

"Well, Kristen was nosy."

"We all know what you do for a living. God knows you've tried getting it through my head for the past couple of years. Some people, like Ms. Kringle, aren't comfortable with it, but people get it. _I_ get it. I accept your apology."

Sylvia smirked: "You're awfully quick to forgive. I'm guessing things are going well for you here?"

"Captain gets things done."

"That, he does. That, he does."

"I'll ask because I'm pretty sure Captain Barnes will ask it of me later down the road. Do you have anything to do with the fires happening around Gotham?"

"No. I don't. And I don't know who's doing them either."

"They're all connected to Wayne Enterprises," Jim informed sternly. "And they were all done in one night. And who's to say that they're finished?"

"Who is to say, indeed. I don't know who's starting the fires."

"No leads?"

"None at all."

"Are you lying to me?"

"Am I being interrogated?" Sylvia questioned darkly. "You know how much I despise that tone of yours."

Jim leaned forward, interlacing his fingers.

"Sylvia," He said, just as darkly. "Are _you_ starting the fires?"

"I'm not."

"Promise?"

"Promise." Sylvia swore, putting her hand over her heart. "But I like how you think it was me. That's almost flattering."

"Other people assume it was you too." Jim grumbled. "It's hard to defend you these days, what with you working with Penguin."

"Rumors are rumors. And if you believe them over your own sister, well, I feel pretty sorry for you."

"I don't believe them."

"Good."

"But...Whomever _is_ starting these fires just burned one of our own."

Sylvia's amused grin slacked. Her eyebrows knitted together in concern: "Figuratively speaking or…."

"Literally," said Jim through gritted teeth. "He passed away this morning at 5:23."

"I'm sorry, Jimmy."

He accepted her condolences before continuing, "And I need your help."

"With?"

"This arsonist. They had a flamethrower—and it's clear they will not stop. I've asked someone to help, someone I know who will back our play. We have to do what is necessary to end this thing—we need everything at our disposal."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself," said Sylvia, nodding to his odd disposition. "Like when you were trying to tell me that going after Barker would be the only way you could become a detective again."

"You know me. You know I don't do endorsements."

"I do. Politics and police business don't mix. Much like crime and police—but you sound guilty. What'd you do?"

Jim sighed deeply, "I'm endorsing Theo Galavan for mayor."

Sylvia's jaw tightened.

"You're allying the GCPD with _him_?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jim tilted his head curiously, noticing her change of mood: "You don't like him?"

"What's not to like," She returned sarcastically. "He's rich, stood up to Jerome, and pretty much kissed every ass in this goddamn town. What's _not_ to like, huh?"

Jim crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at his sister.

"You don't like him." He stated knowingly. "That's clear enough to me. Why?"

"I just don't."

"Is that all?"

"Call it a 'clash of personalities', but that's all. Obviously, _you_ disagree..."

"I do, but that's just disagreement. If that's all, we'd call it a day. But that doesn't explain the feeling I have that makes me think you're lying to me," Jim stated sternly; he stood to his feet, rounded the desk and leaned against it.

"Well, your gut feeling is wrong. I just don't like Theo Galavan. He makes my blood boil, seeing him."

"There's more to that, I bet, and your reason for not liking him isn't 'just'. There's a reason you don't. Wanna tell me that reason?"

"If I did, you would not believe me. And if I did, you wouldn't be _able_ to believe me."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I have no proof," said Sylvia, throwing her hands up. "I have no proof for the reason why I despise that man. If I told you the reason for why I don't like him, you would not believe me. My opinion of him is not popular; in fact, it contradicts everything this town has been led to believe."

"As your brother, I want you to tell me why you don't like him. You're good at reading people, Vee. You _know_ people, without even knowing them. If you have a bad read on him, I really want to know why."

Sylvia shrugged. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. And he knew, at that point, that he wouldn't be getting anything else out of her. He nodded, dismissing her. She stood.

"For what it's worth," said Sylvia coolly. "If you're feeling like you've hit a wall in your investigation, I have a perp of my own. He followed me for a few miles; I caught him, questioned him—nothing came of use."

Jim gaped, "When did this happen?"

"I caught him before I came to Lee's for that double-date," said Sylvia, nonchalant.

"And you still have him in your custody?"

"Yeah. You can have him if you want. Book him, arrest him, do whatever. I told Gabe to drive the half-wit to the GCPD; I'm guessing he'll be here around this afternoon. This," Sylvia reported, handing him a folded-up piece of paper, "is all that he had on him. It's a receipt for a gun, but he didn't have any ID: no driver's license, nothing to identify him. He had a gun in his left pocket; Gabe will have it. So, when he walks in, please don't shoot him."

Jim stared at her. Sylvia smiled.

"You're starting to become one of them."

"A gangster? Eh, sure. It's not as fun as I thought it was when I was a kid, but it certainly has its moments."

Jim walked towards her, just enough that they had a foot between them.

"Is that person still threatening you?"

"Always."

"And you still won't tell me his name."

"Can't."

"So, you keep saying. What happened there?" Jim asked, glancing at her bruise.

"Wrestling."

"Wrestling with whom?"

"One of my people."

"I hope everything is okay," Jim said, glancing at it again. "Do you need a doctor?"

"No, it's fine. Things get a little rough in the house—everyone needs an outlet."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Peachy keen, jelly bean. Don't worry about me."

"You know I will."

"I know you will. But maybe you should worry more about your captain. He looks like a bomb waiting to go off," She said, kissing her brother's cheek. "I'll see you later, Slim-Jim."

She walked out of the office, waving at Ed who waved back from the stairs before leaving the GCPD station. It was always an event.

**Chapter 31: Take Me Instead**

After visiting her brother and having that _lovely_ run-in with the Captain, Sylvia visited her club, _Lean on Vee's_. She'd admittedly not been there as often as she should have, due to the obvious. But being inside the club now made her feel more relaxed. Living at the mansion did not feel completely like home—it still had the presence of Falcone embodied within.

This club, however, was hers.

Sylvia stood on the stage, smiling at the familiar faces of her patrons. They had become regulars there, and she recognized their faces, knew their names, and even their families. Her servers, Tiffany, Henry, and Josh were in the back, talking idly while Dagger and Chilly stood at the front doors, facing her.

She tapped the mic.

Everyone quieted, their eyes lifting to hers.

"Good Evening, everyone," She greeted.

They responded in easy-going murmurs.

"Today is a special day," Sylvia said lightly. "It marks the anniversary of not just the establishment of _Lean on Vee's_ , but also the day when all of you"—She extended her hands to them endearingly—"became a part of me" –she brought her hands to herself—"As many of you know, I wasn't always the outspoken lark that I am now, and that said, I think everyone can agree that with time, things change. Am I right?"

People nodded vigorously; the more drunken peeps laughed in unnatural high pitches, but were shushed by their counterparts when the time of laughing had passed.

Sylvia grinned beautifully in the microphone.

"So," She continued, "to honor this occasion—so to speak—I am going to start the night off with some Karaoke. Everyone is free to come on stage and sing whatever song they want. Keep the Christmas songs at a minimum, it's not the holidays just yet, although they are around the corner. Tell me, has anyone started their shopping? Raise your hand if you have!"

No one raised their hands.

"Good," said Sylvia, grinning. "So, we understand each other."

Chuckles heard from the crowd. She turned to the violinists that had been sitting in the back.

"Thank you, boys. You can take the evening off—we'll be using a boombox for the rest of the night. You can put your instruments in the back if you want. The door locks. And, please, have a round on me," said Sylvia, smiling at them gracefully.

"Thank you," the violinists and instrumentalists thanked her five times over.

She waved them away. Sylvia placed the microphone at the end of the stage, and held her hands out once more. She spoke with her normal voice, although it was louder to compensate for the lack of the microphone; she didn't have to speak too loudly since mostly everyone was quiet, respectfully so.

"Everyone, come up as you like. But let's keep this shin-dig clean, all right? No hecklers in the crowd—I'm talking to _you_ , Henry!" (From behind the bar counter, Henry looked up and raised his eyebrows innocently as the contenders glanced around and laughed at his surprise.) "Everyone, have fun!"

Sylvia stepped off the stage in her glossy white, 5-inch heels; her ocean-blue dress trailed behind her. Uncommon to her usual routine, her ginger hair was pulled into a French braid, sitting on her right shoulder. Aside from winged eyeliner, she wore no other make-up. As she strode through the crowd, the familiar patrons happily thanked her for their drinks as most of them were served on the House; she gracefully moved through the crowd, taking a seat at the bar where Henry, Tiffany, and Josh met her at the corner edge of the counter.

"You're being pretty generous," said Henry, smirking at her.

"No more than I usually am. Gotta give these people something to look forward to—even if it's only for a night."

"You look nice," Josh mumbled, smiling shyly at her.

"Yeah," said Tiffany. "More than usual. The anniversary must mean something to you."

"Not much," said Sylvia innocently. "But it _has_ been a little over a year since I started running things."

"Guess it's a good thing we've been saving up, huh?" Tiffany joked. "All that extra revenue—I guess we could afford to spend it on ourselves."

" _You_ can, and I insist you do, but I'm not drinking tonight."

"Why not?"

"I have to keep my wits about me."

"What happened? Has something gone wrong?"

"No. It's more or less if something goes right." Sylvia admitted.

"Things are going pretty great," Henry agreed. "Perhaps we shouldn't be _too_ generous."

"Don't be ridiculous," Tiffany cooed. "People need a day off. If people stay tense too long, they start walking on egg shells, and no one wants to do that."

"You would know, huh, babe?" Henry returned sympathetically.

"More than anyone," Tiffany concurred, nodding. In spite of her past abuse, it seemed to make her down-to-earth than weak these days and for this, Sylvia was grateful.

Tiffany was finally starting to see her worth. And that was a victory. That was worth celebrating. Henry kissed her cheek, then her ear; Tiffany returned the kiss to his mouth and the make-out started without really even starting. Sylvia cleared her throat, excusing herself. Josh followed her modestly, hoping to get out of that awkward circle while he still had the chance.

"Vee-Vee!"

Sylvia turned, eyebrow raised when she heard the name, and smiled when Freda and Marcy headed towards her. Like before, they wore the same clothes. Marcy's hair color had changed from the Cruella DeVil act; this month, she sported a kind of neon lavender with an aquamarine chunking. She reminded Sylvia of an aquarium with colorful decorations and foliage.

Freda hugged her left while Marcy hugged her right. They both wore red leggings and blue holster tops. Like twins.

"We're gonna sing Karaoke!" Marcy said excitedly.

"Then go for it—the mic's yours," Sylvia blessed.

"But we don't know what song to sing," Freda said; she sipped on her Frappuccino.

"Something melodic," Marcy suggested.

"Something bad-ass!"

Sylvia shrugged: "Well, you don't have to sing together. You can sing individually."

They stared at her as though this was an idea that had never been visited before nor should it have ever.

"Or," said Sylvia slowly, "you can sing together."

"Yeah," said Marcy, "We're doing that."

"What if we did a couple's duet—or something awesome like—"

"—We can't sing a duet, we're not even a couple—"

"People sing duets without being couples, Marcy," said Freda.

"But how many duets do you know that _aren't_ romantic?"

"You're making this difficult."

"You're not helping, Starbucks."

"So, get your shit together," said Freda pointedly. "Because we're like fifth in line!"

Sylvia patted the two women on the shoulder: "It looks like you two still have some stuff to discuss. So I'll just let you all figure this one out."

Freda and Marcy started discussing this loudly and Sylvia was quick to step out of the way. She walked through the crowd, greeting people, still.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw Tabitha. The woman approached her, grinning.

"You're doing well," said Tabitha, glancing at the stage. "It's like you don't have a care in the world."

"I'm keeping up appearances," Sylvia returned, forcing her calm.

"Got a place we can talk?"

"Fine." Sylvia muttered hatefully, rolling her eyes.

She opened the door to what used to be Fish's office, stepping aside so Tabitha strutted in. When she did, Sylvia closed the door, turning to the sister with little enthusiasm.

"What the fuck do you want this time around?"

"So rude," Tabitha breathed. "And I thought we were going to have a polite discussion."

"Your people beat the shit out of Tiffany," said Sylvia dangerously. "You've kidnapped my mother-in-law, holding her in a place only god-knows-where. You _waltz_ into my home and into my club like you own them, and you're making my life a living hell. And you think you and I will have a polite discussion?"

Tabitha sat in the chair behind the desk, placing her feet on it like she was the boss.

"You think you and I will be civil after that?" Sylvia said darkly. "Fuck you'."

"Wow," Tabitha sighed with mock disappointment. "You know what, I thought I would get a lot more sass from your husband, but turns out _you_ possess a lot more spunk. Nothing I'd expect from a pigeon."

Sylvia narrowed her eyes.

"Pardon?"

Tabitha chuckled, "He calls you 'Pigeon'. I've listened. I've heard. I think it's cute actually, you know. He's a penguin. You're a pigeon. 'Birds of a feather flock together' is a saying, but you two have taken it more literally."

"You're trying to antagonize me, aren't you?"

"Is it working?"

"Admittedly, yes. But I'm not going to hurt you. I'm exercising a great deal of control."

"Really?" Tabitha mused, grinning ear-to-ear. "Tell me what you want to do to me, right now. I bet that bloodlust of yours is just _aching_ to get out, isn't it?"

Sylvia inhaled deeply, gritting her teeth. Then she released said breath, looking at Tabitha coldly. But did nothing.

"Mm," Tabitha noted. "Penguin certainly has an influence over you, doesn't he? He's not even here, and you're still obeying his orders. What were they— 'Don't harm me'…? or something like that."

"Something like that," Sylvia uttered dangerously.

"Your girl from the Narrows does good work," said Tabitha as she stood to her feet. "Burned all those buildings to the ground, perfectly. But I can't help but wonder why you didn't do it yourself. From what I saw at the gala, you have a flair for setting things on fire. So, why didn't the little bread head have _you_ start the fires?"

"I don't know," Sylvia lied. "Maybe you should ask him."

"Mm, that'd be no fun."

"So, you're bored. Maybe you should go and kidnap another mayor, huh?"

Tabitha smiled smugly: "I like the way you think. But you're so much more fun to play with. Unless...you want me to find something to do and—oh, I don't know—go harass your darling little mother-in-law for a few more hours. I have to admit, she's pretty fun to play with too."

"Take me instead."

"Excuse me?" Tabitha asked, but she seemed to already know what Sylvia meant.

She strode forward, Sylvia did. She moved the chair out of the way so she and Tabitha stood only a couple feet from each other.

"You heard me." Sylvia ordered. "Bring Gertrud home. Take me instead."

"We both know why we won't do that. You're a fighter, but your mother-in-law isn't. She's such an easy thing to play with, so vulnerable. Have you heard her cry, little pigeon? It's really fun to watch."

Sylvia took a step forward. Tabitha eyed her cautiously.

"You want someone to play with? You want someone to torture, who will make it worth your while, then you take me instead."

"I'd be a lot harder on you than I've been with the woman," Tabitha promised.

"I don't care. You take me instead." Sylvia insisted, unblinkingly. "You leave her be, you bring her home. I'll go with you, right now. Just as long as you leave my family alone."

"And then we'll have Jim Gordon to fight with," said Tabitha lazily. "That sounds fun too, but probably not the best thing for my brother's campaign. And he _just_ bought your brother's endorsement too. Nah, it wouldn't really help us, taking you. We'll just keep Gertrud with us for now."

"Or I could kill you _now_ and save everyone a hell lot of trouble."

"Oh, but what if Theo found out what hostile plans you have in that twisted mind of yours?"

"He doesn't care about you," said Sylvia darkly. "If he learned that you were struck dead by my hand, he would not even throw you a funeral. And your brother wouldn't think twice about you. He'd probably even let me have my way, and say that I could do anything with you. Given the opportunity, I'd bury your body, ideally _alive_ , and I'd leave you there to rot."

"If I died, she would die too—she'd never be able to leave; you don't where she is."

"I'd make you tell me where she is. I could do it right here."

"Those people will hear." Tabitha reminded, nodding her head to the guests that stood outside the door.

" _Those_ people?" said Sylvia, glancing out the office door. "They don't care about _you_. They're _my_ people. And they don't give a shit **what** I do to people like you."

"I didn't realize how fun this would be when I came here."

Sylvia backed off, growling inwardly. Seemingly having gotten her fill, Tabitha sighed, "Your people may not be as loyal as you think, little pigeon. You might want to get your loyalties checked. See you later."

Sylvia watched her, narrowing her eyes.

 _What was that supposed to mean_ , she wondered.

A basic manipulative play, surely. Tabitha seemed to be that type.

Sylvia slammed the door shut, and sat at her desk. Her life was slowly crumbling into a mess, and how was she getting through it? Slamming doors, making empty threats. She would keep up appearances, pretend she was happy when, really, she felt like she was going mad.

But that's what a queen did, in the face of chaos? Right? Keep up appearances. And she could do that, still. _Right_?

Seeing that no amount of internal struggle would dull the pain of uncertainty, Sylvia left Tiffany in charge of Karaoke and wandered into the mansion. Between Jim allying himself with Galavan and Tabitha's excursion to make Sylvia's mind more confused than it already was, she was up to her eyes in shit.

As she strode inside the mansion, she was surprised when an elderly woman with a large frock passed her. Sylvia looked at her oddly, even as the woman passed and drove off down the driveway.

"What the…" Sylvia began.

"That's Edwidge."

Sylvia startled, seeing Butch smiling after the woman who'd gone. He stood in the doorway, leaning against it with one arm over his head.

"She's quite the woman. What are you all dolled up for?"

"I was entertaining," said Sylvia dully. "At the club. Karaoke night."

"Sounds fun."

"It _was_ fun." Sylvia muttered, rolling her shoulders back. "Who's Edwidge?"

"She knows old-time Gotham."

"Was she here to talk about the Waynes?"

Butch looked at Sylvia with surprise and awe.

"I visited my brother earlier," Sylvia explained. "All the fires have one landlord—Wayne Enterprises. Old-time Gotham and the Wayne family are pretty much the peanut butter and jelly of a good story. Care to share?"

Sensing a grumpy edge to her tone, Butch asked, "What's eating _you_?"

"Nothing."

"Well, I know _that's_ a lie."

Sylvia stormed through the mansion, taking off her heels as she did; Butch followed her, saying nothing. The way he figured, she come out with whatever was bothering her—the woman looked like she needed to vent otherwise she would implode.

"That fucking woman came to me at the club," grumbled Sylvia.

"Who?"

"Tabitha _Galavan_ ," Sylvia spat the name like it was a poison.

"Oh crap. What'd she do?" Butch asked worriedly.

"Nothing."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing pleasant."

Butch crossed his arms, leaning against the kitchen doorframe as Sylvia ransacked the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of vodka. She didn't even grab a glass; instead, she popped off the cork and took a long swig for herself. Butch raised his eyebrows in response.

"The fucking cunt," Sylvia growled, rubbing the dribble of vodka from her chin with the back of her hand. "Whenever the moment presents itself for me to slit her throat, I'll do it with a fucking hacksaw."

"Chainsaw would be quicker."

"I don't want it to be quick." Sylvia said breathlessly as she placed the vodka on the counter. "I want her to feel everything for as long as possible."

"Well, I can certainly see the appeal."

Sylvia took another long drink.

"Whoa…." Butch warned, taking the bottle from Sylvia, who didn't even protest. "Liv, you're gonna kill yourself if you go at this rate."

"At this point, I'd take it as a welcome relief."

"Sit down," Butch advised. "I'll pour us a couple and I can tell you something that might just make you happy."

Sylvia grumbled something under her breath that Butch wouldn't hear, but he took it as some type of consent. He placed a glass in front of her, one in front of himself as well. Half of the glass contained cranberry juice to dilute the vodka; he filled the rest, as such.

"Where's Oswald?" Sylvia asked, looking around the kitchen.

"Taking a breather outside. Clearing his mind. Maybe you might want to do the same."

"I don't want my mind to be clear! I want it to be muddy, and dark, and **cold**. Much like the rest of my soul."

"So, I'm guessing Tabitha got to you."

"I guess me calling her a 'fucking cunt' didn't make that clear?"

Butch held his hand up in surrender: "Well, here's the good news. Penguin seems to have figured something out, to beating Galavan."

"How?"

"This knife," said Butch, holding up the weapon that had been sitting on the table, unrecognized by Sylvia until now, "This knife belongs to the Wayne family."

"Why is it here?" Sylvia questioned dully, then taking another long drink from the glass.

"Galavan wanted it."

"Fine. But, I reiterate, 'Why is it _here'_?"

"I've not sent it to him yet. So, it's just been sitting on this table."

"Ah."

She took a long drink of the cranberry-vodka mixture and then placed it back on the table; it was empty. "So, why was…. Edwidge here—is that really her name?"

"Yeah."

"Who names their kid 'Edwidge'?"

"Guess her parents did."

"Obviously. So why was she here?"

"She knows the story behind the knife."

"What's the story?"

"I can't make it as narrative as she can, but in short: the Waynes got rid of this family named Dumas," Butch explained. "Took them off the charts, pushed them out of history. Dumas changed their name to 'Galavan'."

"Well, I guess the Waynes and I have something in common," Sylvia muttered. "Pushing Galavan's people from the history books is a fantastic idea."

"I figure so. Same ballpark idea as punishments go too, apparently."

"Meaning?"

"This knife cut off Dumas' hand," said Butch, pointing at the weapon. "The guy was sleeping with one of the Wayne girls, and _boom_ —off goes the hand. Pretty fascinating story."

"Sounds like it. Too bad I wasn't here for it."

"Like I said, I don't do it justice."

"Well, I like the summary," said Sylvia, allowing herself a small smile. "And Oswald is outside….?"

"Getting some fresh air," Butch reminded, nodding.

"Oh, right. You told me that already."

"What'd the sister say to you anyway?" Butch asked, looking her over. "You're really pissed off."

"Am I?"

"I'd say you are."

"She came to gloat. Talked about how she has my mother-in-law."

"You didn't hurt her, did you?"

"Against my better instincts, I didn't." Sylvia said coolly.

"Well, I guess we can both drink to that."

"I _did_ offer to take Gertrud's place though."

Butch had been in the process of pouring Sylvia another glass, and in that moment, he stumbled and some splashed on the table. Sylvia looked unaffected, glancing at him curiously. Butch put the bottle down, looking at her unbelievingly.

"You did _what_?"

"I told Tabitha to take me, and bring Gertrud home. Not that it did anything; the bitch insisted that she keep her since they'd have to fight with Jim and the rest of the GCPD. Wouldn't be beneficial to the Mayoral Campaign, she said."

"Liv, do you have any idea what that girl can do?" Butch said quietly.

Sylvia said curtly, "I do. And I don't give a fuck. I'd gladly put myself in harm's way so Gertrud comes home. I could sleep better knowing it was me. I'd _rather_ it was me. At least then I would know that she was safe."

"If Penguin finds out what you tried to do—" Butch warned.

"I don't care." Sylvia said, throwing her hand towards him dismissively. "And there's more."

" _More_? More than what you said?"

Following another long swig of vodka, Sylvia added breathlessly, "I also threatened to kill Tabitha."

" ** _What_**!"

"And said that if I did kill her, Theo wouldn't care."

"Why would you go and say those things!" Butch exclaimed, eyes wide.

Sylvia stood suddenly, scooting her chair violently back so the legs made scratches across the wooden floor. She met him, eye-level.

"Because I was furious!" Sylvia shouted. "She pissed me off, so I lit her up! You want me to say that I just sat down and stayed quiet, be a good little girl—well, I didn't! I threatened to kill her, bury her in the ground—hell, I'd happily watch her carcass _rot_ beneath my feet. And I'd cackle maniacally in the night, laughing my fucking head off!"

Butch stared at her saying, "You might have hurt Gertrud, saying all that stuff to Tabitha. She'll take her temper out on her."

"I couldn't help it, Butch!" Sylvia snarled. "She vexed me! She comes to _my_ club, threatens _me_ , calls me a 'little pigeon' and you don't think I'll bite off her head? That's what she wanted, and by god, that's what I gave her! She is _happy_ that I was pissed off, so—excuse me, Butch—no harm will come to Gertrud because I gave that bitch what she wanted."

"You're starting to crack under the pressure," He noted.

"I'm cracking, all right," said Sylvia harshly, sitting down with a 'thud'. "I'm falling apart. I'm roasting away. I'm going mad! Why else would I offer my life to that devil woman? This whole shtick is driving me _insane_."

The door creaked. Sylvia and Butch glanced towards the doorway where Oswald stood, watching them. And who knew how long he'd been there. He might as well as heard the whole thing.

Oswald stepped inside the room, looking at Sylvia carefully.

"You tried to take her place?"

Sylvia sighed in defeat, nodding.

"Why would you do that?" Oswald questioned.

It wasn't clear if he was angry, sad, or surprised. His expression, for the first time since Sylvia knew him, was unreadable.

"I hate seeing you like this. I hate knowing these people have you under their thumb. It's intolerable."

"If you took her place," said Oswald calmly, "I would still be in the same situation."

Butch quietly cleared his throat and made a point to exit the room so the two could have some privacy. Sylvia looked in the direction Butch had gone, then turned her head to Oswald, who still gazed at her with a blank expression.

"If I took her place," Sylvia reasoned, "you'd be in the same situation but with better circumstances. You know as well as I do, I would be better off in that cage...not your mother."

Oswald sat down in a chair, beside her: "True. But then I'd be lost."

"You're lost now."

"Not so much."

"You're going mad without her," Sylvia pointed out. "You've been having nightmares, and you've not slept much after the fact. I know how _I_ feel when I think about her; I can't imagine what you're going through."

Oswald smiled sadly, and took her hands in his.

"Pigeon," (She smiled at the pet name.) "I honestly couldn't imagine a world without you."

"That's sweet, Ozzie. But you have to admit that you wish they'd taken me instead of her."

Oswald said nothing, but Sylvia knew it in her heart that it was true. He didn't say it—because he didn't want to admit it either.

"You don't have to feel bad for thinking that," Sylvia murmured. "I know you love me. I know you care for me. But it's true, isn't it?"

"Whether it is or isn't. It means the world to me to know that you were willing to make the sacrifice."

She smiled sweetly at him. He looked at for a moment, pausing in hesitation before leaning forward. His lips met hers. It was one of the softer kisses, gentle in nature but deep in meaning. When it naturally broke, Sylvia looked at him, seeing his soft expression change to one of discernible worry. It was an expression that frequently shadowed his features.

"How did I get so lucky to have you still standing by my side?" Oswald asked her quietly.

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Sylvia returned; she put a nice peck on his cheek.

"I fear these times will become too dangerous for you, I’d ask you to leave Gotham, for now..."

"But you'll know I will refuse," Sylvia reminded. "I didn't leave your side when Falcone and Maroni were having that family feud, and I didn't leave when you were strung up by your wrists with Falcone and Jim. I'll be damned if I leave your side now when you need me most."

Oswald smiled at her, but sadly. He searched for something to say, something to describe the way he was feeling, but the way he looked at her was enough. Still, he tried.

"How do you deal with this?" Oswald asked. "How—"

Sylvia put his left hand on her neck, three fingers over her carotid artery. He gave her a curious look.

"Tell me what you feel." Sylvia said gently.

"Your heart beat," Oswald answered almost immediately.

"Good. Now, kiss me again."

"Pidge..."

"Just do it." Sylvia insisted.

Oswald leaned forward and kissed her again. Softly, like before. With his hand over her heart beat, he felt the familiar thump-thump. Trying to understand her hidden meaning, Oswald decided to take a step further; the soft kiss became deeper as he probed her bottom lip with his tongue, smiling when he felt her heartbeat thump faster.

She parted her lips, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth when his tongue found hers.

And, my, how quick her heart raced. And he could feel it too.

Sylvia placed her hand over his hand that held her neck.

"You do things to me, make me feel things that no one has ever made me feel," She said quickly, her lips brushing against his as she spoke. "Everything about you pulls me in. So, when you question why I stay by your side, the answer will always be 'you'."

Oswald smiled at her.

"You certainly have a way with words, don't you, Pidge?"

"I've learned from the best," Sylvia purred, grinning at him. "Your looks and personality draw me in. That dick of yours is just bonus."

Oswald let out a modest laugh, and it broke the surface tension.

**Chapter 32: Moments Like These**

She lied in bed, her mind in the balance of the slumber and the awareness that she was not completely asleep, wearing a lavender night slip; the comforter was bunched around her in a pile, exposing her smooth legs and red-painted toes.

Oswald sat on the edge of the bed closest to her, fully dressed. He would wager that seeing her so calm and undisturbed was, by the far, the best highlight of his day...hell, his week, even. He touched her shoulder, so light that he wasn't even certain that his fingers made contact with the exposed skin.

Often times, his fretful dreams and his paranoia kept him up at night; he might sleep three of four hours on a good day...five or six if Sylvia was sleeping beside him.

He moved his hand down her arm, and from her arm, he caressed her side, then her hip. His dreams were mainly nightmares; it was frightening how horrific his own mind would torture him at night, while Galavan and his sister, in the meantime, tortured him during his wakeful hours.

His only solace was her.

"Mmm..." She stirred and snuggled further into the covers. Holding something.

He glanced at what she was holding, hidden underneath her body, and cradled in her arms. When he realized what it was, he couldn't hold back a small laugh.

It was the cotton-stuffed penguin plush doll that he'd given her on the day she had awoken from her coma. He'd presumed she'd thrown it away during an odd week, but...here it was. Oswald smirked; his wife was secretly sentimental.

 _Amongst many other things,_ he thought aloud as he brushed the stray strands of hair from her forehead.

In these quiet moments, Oswald could be himself, and quietly watch his beloved slowly drift into a deep sleep. These moments were rare in themselves, but he cherished them whenever he could. He kissed her forehead, allowing his lips to linger for only a few seconds longer.

What if he wasn't the King of Gotham. What if he and Sylvia were just the most ordinary married couple in Gotham, and neither of them had to worry about being kidnapped, held at gunpoint, ransoms—what if they just had lived a normal life. Oswald wondered about this several times…did she regret marrying him at times when people like Galavan imposed on what could be an easy life?

Sylvia stirred, and she turned on her back, looking up at him.

"You're in deep thought," She noted hoarsely.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Oswald apologized.

"I wasn't asleep."

She rubbed her eyes and looked at him curiously.

"You're still dressed. What time is it?"

"It's nightfall."

"Are you coming to bed?"

"I have to talk with Butch first."

"It can't wait until tomorrow?"

"No."

Sylvia raised her eyebrows, hearing his tone. She shifted in the covers, pulling herself up so she and Oswald were at eye-level. He didn't expect her to let it go; Oswald knew Sylvia better than she knew herself.

"Are you okay?" She asked quietly.

"You know the answer to that."

"Can I help in any way?"

"Not really." He answered with a small smile. "You can go back to sleep. I'll only be gone a couple hours."

"Are you leaving the mansion?"

"No." Oswald reassured. "As I said, I'll be speaking with Butch."

"Should I be present?"

"Your presence isn't necessary. Just go back to sleep, Pigeon."

Sylvia looked at him a while longer, like she was trying to see past his soft words. Oswald was certain she would insist, but to his surprise, she lied back down, nestled under the covers.

She giggled, "Were you watching me sleep?"

"It's my favorite pastime," Oswald admitted.

"You know, if you were anyone else but yourself, I'd say that was a little creepy."

"Well, you should be used to me by now."

"Mmm."

He leaned in and she met him halfway with the kiss. Soft, and tender. She smiled at him and then she closed her eyes, so she could drift off to sleep. He kissed her forehead like before, and then stood to his feet. The weight of the bed shifted with the loss of his, and Sylvia opened her eyes once more to see him leave.

"Oz."

Oswald stopped at the doorway, turning around to look at her: "Yes, my dear?"

Sylvia pointed: "Do you mind turning off the light on your way out?"

"Of course." He said, smiling. He turned off the switch.

"Thank you, Pengy."

"You're welcome, Pidge. I love you."

"I love you too." Sylvia responded before turning on her side and cradling the penguin plush once more.

Oswald closed the door with a soft _click_ before making his way down to the Meeting Room once more. On his way down, he grabbed a hatchet from the broom closet, and as he sat at the table, he placed it underneath its surface.

Chopping off Butch's hand was the only option, it seemed. The only other alternative was to hurt Sylvia, make her be the one to tell Galavan that she had switched sides, but that wouldn't work out. Sylvia had long made her loyalties known to everyone.

There was no doubt that Sylvia would allow him to chop off her hand. That wasn't the issue. Oswald doubted that _he_ could make himself do it. There wasn't a part of Sylvia that he could harm, nevertheless, chop off.

So Butch had to be his designated doer.

**Chapter 33: Advice From The Right-Handed**

"You cut off his hand." Sylvia said for what seemed like the twentieth time since she had found out.

"It was the only option," Oswald told her patiently; he sat on his throne inside the Meeting Room, holding a glass of wine by the neck, while his beloved preferred to slowly pace throughout the room in a knee-length teal robe, wet ginger locks cast over her shoulders.

"You cut off...his hand."

Oswald made a strong effort to not roll his eyes in front of her. Surely, she wasn't this surprised that he'd done this.

Sylvia stopped in place, her back to him until she slowly turned on her heel, looking at him.

"Did you at least put his hand in an ice box or something?" Sylvia said calmly as she placed her hands on the back of a chair closest to Oswald; her fingernails drummed the wooden arch. "I feel like that's something that would be hard to part with, you know." Her words followed with thinly veiled contempt: "Of course, it was the _only_ option..."

"Don't patronize me," He scoffed, sitting back in his chair. "It _was_ the only way."

"Was it? There are other ways of making Butch seem convincing. I can't think of any right now but cutting off his hand must be like top five or so. Maybe number four."

"He _has_ to get close to Galavan," Oswald uttered more to himself than speaking to her. "Galavan not only needs to believe him, but he needs to feel for him."

"Feelings, huh? Well, maybe you should have cut off one of his testicles. From one man to another, Galavan would definitely feel a little pity for that kind of loss."

Oswald shook his head and returned his eyes to the red translucent liquid in his glass. This was the fourth time they'd quibbled this week. Sure, married couples had a reputation of doing nothing but squabbling, but who knew it was actually true.

"'Butch Gilzean: The Spy'," Sylvia sneered, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "That's laughable, considering the fact that he's not exactly James Bond, honey."

"Enough," Oswald ordered, glaring at her. "I've listened to what you had to say and, still, I maintain my position. It was between you and Butch for me to decide who would go to Galavan—"

"And you chose **him**." Sylvia hissed, pointing towards the door to indicate where Butch had recently been dismissed.

"I did."

"You don't think I could be convincing?"

"Please, don't make this about you."

Sylvia scooted the chair into the table with little grace, glaring at him. He remained unaffected, having become normalized to her brief outbursts of a violent temper. His eyes didn't falter from hers even as she strode towards him.

"I'm not making _anything_ about me," said Sylvia hotly. "But you can't blame me for feeling a _tad_ bit offended that you sent _that lummox_ to sway Galavan, instead of me. I mean, I'm a _better_ liar, and I'm _closer_ to being spy material than that gorilla. And—by the way—" (Her tone sharpened) "I don't need an amputation or a hard scrub of the brain to make me a good spy. But instead of sending me, you send _him_."

Oswald met her harsh gaze, knowing he should have been more prepared for this argument. There was a flicker of jealousy in her eyes for the reason that Oswald had chosen Butch to appeal to Galavan's pity rather than herself.

He'd expected her to feel offended but did not predict her to fly off the handle.

"Pigeon, sit down."

"I don't _want_ to sit down. I wanna know why you didn't send me."

"Your loyalties were proven to me a thousand times over," He answered harshly. "Not that I don't appreciate the gesture, but Galavan would never believe you turned traitor."

"And he thinks Butch would?"

"He will think that _I_ think he's turned traitor."

Sylvia threw her hands up in the air: "This **whole** plan is so convoluted."

Oswald let out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose to postpone the inevitable headache.

"What would you have me do?"

"Bring Butch back; send me instead. Galavan has a thing for me," Sylvia suggested, crossing her arms over her chest. "We can use that. He may not be able to think that I would turn on you, Oswald, but he has more than paranoia on the brain. He's a human—a man—and he's more than capable of other emotions. And _he_ can be manipulated."

Oswald narrowed his eyes.

"Please tell me you're not suggesting what I think you're about to suggest." He told her coldly.

"Lust can be manipulated, but I'm not about to sleep with him for information if that's what you mean. Besides, it wouldn't work. Even after I slept with him, there's no guarantee that he'd tell me where Gertrud is, and even if he did, his minions would probably move her location before I could even have the chance to find her. On the flip side, too, Galavan is too tightly wound to believe that I'd give myself to him after he told me."

Oswald said darkly, "It seems you've thought this plan of yours all the way through."

"Just getting the information part," she said, nodding, "not the part about sleeping with him. I've tried to neglect that part for the betterment of my sanity. And for the very reason that I wouldn't go that far to get information on your mom...unless, of course, you asked it of me."

"I wouldn't ask you to sleep with another man."

"Good to know."

"Butch will do his part," Oswald insisted.

"How can you be so sure?"

"He's my servant. He's supposed to obey me in all things. He'll do what I've asked."

"Oh, like I wouldn't?"

"I couldn't take that chance. If Galavan somehow turned you against me, I would have no one."

"We've been over this before—you can't lose me," Sylvia persisted. "And the whole point of me doing all this training with Mr. Bell is to ensure that I would not become leverage."

"Galavan doesn't have to bring you down physically to turn you against me."

Sylvia scoffed, "Like that man could ever understand me the same way you do. Like he could even _try_ to compare with the likes of you. At best, he's rich—he has _nothing_ else."

She rounded the table and knelt down in front of him; her hands rested on his lap.

"I could be in and out of that mansion, Oz. I could find your mother's whereabouts before they even realized I was there," Sylvia said earnestly. "I've been in there before—we both have. Butch could distract them—god knows, he has enough stories to do that. And then, we can be done with this shit. I promise I could do it!"

"You can't make that kind of promise."

"You doubt my word?"

"I don't doubt you. I trust you completely. It's _them_ that I don't trust. And I can't afford to lose you. Not now, not ever."

There was a beat in the silence, as though both Oswald and Sylvia had exhausted all their options. The two of them were tired, and it had been an ongoing emotional roller coaster since Gertrud had been kidnapped.

She looked up at him, her eyes having lost their glare.

Oswald's eyes flickered to meet hers, noticing that her argumentative fire had smoldered. He could see that she was truly trying to figure out other ways of getting back at Galavan. He reached his hand out to interlace his fingers through the blanket of tangled copper hair, and she laid her head down on his thigh.

"This has to end," Sylvia muttered as he rubbed her neck. "All of this."

"It will," Oswald reassured. "I promise."

The wine glass on the table became forgotten as Oswald caressed his hands around her face and encouraged her to move closer to him. She stood, then lifted her robe a little so she could sit on his lap, straddling him; her feet barely touched the ground, her toes making contact with the wooden panels beneath her.

"Do you know how much I love you?" Oswald asked quietly, his fingers laced behind her neck amongst the tangles.

"I do. But tell me, on a mathematical scale, how much do you love me? From one to ten….?"

"Fifty." He answered immediately.

"That's a lot."

"Are you surprised?"

"Not at all, Mr. Penguin. But it's remarkable to say the least."

"On this scale of yours, how do _I_ compare?"

"Fifty- _one_."

"That's high, but respectable."

"I love you more than you could possibly love me," said Sylvia truthfully. "If you asked it of me, I'd let you chop off my hand."

"That's good to know. But I couldn't do it, even with your permission."

"I'd chop it off myself."

"I know you would. But I would rather you not."

"So that's why you chose Butch, huh." Sylvia said softly. "Despite knowing that I would be better at convincing Galavan, you still choose Butch because you can't stand the thought of hurting me, even if I said it was okay?"

"You are a great source of strength for me," He said affectionately. "Hurting you may seem like a necessity, but it should never get to that point. There will always be other options, even if there are none."

"You're really sweet. However, if you wanted to take my hand, I'd prefer it that you take my left," She added with a mischievous grin. "I'm right-handed, mind you."

"Duly noted."

Sylvia sat on the balcony of _Lean on Vee's._ Mostly, she was admiring how things were going downstairs; the entertainment was performing best as expected; drinks flowed like an endless fountain of inebriation; and, yet, despite everything, she couldn't shake the constant dread.

While Butch was playing spy for Oswald and was also trying to sneak his way into Galavan's charms, there was plenty that could go awry. Sylvia leaned over the banister, watching a few of the customers become belligerent before Dagger and Chilly decided to throw them out.

It was fair to say that she was feeling on edge. But not without reason.

When she heard a familiar voice tell Henry "Tell Sylvia I'm here", she already knew the reason for why Henry was headed up the stairs, taking three steps at a time. When he appeared breathless before her, Henry opened his mouth to speak, but Sylvia smiled, saying, "Let him up."

Henry dutifully nodded before heading back down the stairs, sliding more down the rail than actually taking the steps. A minute passed before Sylvia turned from the balcony to see Jim in front of her, looking more haggard than usual.

"Hi, Jimmy," Sylvia greeted, smiling casually at him.

"Hey, Vee."

He moved towards her, and they embraced with a half-hug, one arm wrapped around the other shoulders before he pulled away, looking more or less at war with himself. Sylvia offered him the seat opposite of hers, and he sat down abruptly; he clasped his hands together on the table.

"Do you remember Selina Kyle?"

"'Cat'," Sylvia corrected, grinning. "Yes. I do. Last I saw her, she was playing Devil's Advocate with Fish while you, Falcone, Harvey, and my husband were tied up by your wrists. Pleasant memory, fond of it actually—What did she do?"

"She didn't do anything—for once. It's who she's protecting," Jim informed coolly.

"The one who's been starting the fires?"

"The same."

"I told you before. I _don't_ know who started them. And my people don't know either."

"Are you certain of that?"

"Fairly. But I'm guessing, because you're _here_ , you have some reservations about that."

"Not about what you don't know. Selina told me who the fire starter is. It's a girl by the name of Bridgit Pike. Does the name ring a bell?"

"Never met her."

"Do you know her brothers?"

"Who are _they_?"

Jim scowled, "Joe and Cale Pike. They kidnapped her. Stole her away. According to Selina, Bridgit was forced to start the fires..."

"And you believe Selina?"

"I normally wouldn't. But just a while ago, she had me at gun point."

"Handgun?"

"Shot gun," Jim corrected indignantly. "Not that it matters."

"Quite the armory for such a little girl," said Sylvia coolly. "So, you know who the arsonist is, and you know the name of her captors. So, why are you _here_?"

Jim leaned back in his seat; his hand twitched on the table. After a moment, he said nothing, but he leaned in once more, looking at Sylvia with imploring eyes.

"The GCPD is after her. They're looking to shoot the moment they see her; they won't hesitate."

"So, find this girl before _they_ do." Sylvia insisted. "They're probably in their house, you know. Packing up, getting ready to go where they're heading—you might catch them in time if you get there first."

Jim looked at her plainly: "I can't just go there."

"You're a fucking detective, Jim—You can literally go anywhere."

"The Pike brothers won't simply _give_ her to me."

"Are you suggesting that I come along, and they would give her to _me_?" asked Sylvia incredulously.

Jim shrugged like she'd gotten his point pretty quick.

"They won't listen to me."

"You're a criminal, _they're_ criminals," Jim said logically. "They see me, they'll run."

"They see _me_ ," Sylvia responded, getting to her feet, "And they'll be after _my head._ Jim, just because we're criminals, doesn't mean we'd get along swimmingly. They're Fish Loyalists, they still think she's coming back."

Jim sent her a desperate look.

"There's nothing I can do. If anything, I'd make matters worse. They know whose side I was on during the war, and they know my spouse—I'm not about to put myself in murky waters just because there's a slight chance that I'd get your suspect out of this familial hostage situation. You're barking mad to think I would."

"You're not going to try?" Jim asked, frowning. "You'd be saving a life."

"Or sentencing one to death," said Sylvia darkly. "You're better off finding this girl without me, James. If those Pike brothers see me with you, you can kiss your chances of getting their sister good-bye. Now, if you're looking for reinforcements, I have two people you can borrow, but you'll have to bring them back."

"Your bruisers, no thanks."

"Well, it's the thought that counts."

Jim stood: "Thanks for your help, Vee."

"Don't thank me just yet. I didn't do anything. For what it's worth, I hope you find this girl and get her out of this sticky situation she's in."

Jim nodded briskly before he started walking away. As he was half-way down the stairs, Sylvia called after him. He turned, looking up at her.

"If you want to get this girl on your side. Promise her that she won't go to jail. A girl like her is afraid of that kind of thing. Tell her that's she still a juvie; she'll likely be more lenient to come along if she knows she's not going to Black Gate. That always worked with _me_ as a kid."

Jim nodded, allowing himself to offer her a small smile before taking off.

Sylvia walked down the stairs, thanking Henry for when he offered her a second martini.

"Your brother tends to come in and out as he pleases, doesn't he?" Henry said dryly.

"More than I care to admit."

"Does that bother you?"

"It used to bother me. But now, it's normally the only other time I get to see him. It's pretty much the family thing." Sylvia said smoothly, taking a sip of her martini before walking to the stage, waving away the entertainment.

Sylvia visited the GCPD the following day. For once, she had no business with Jim. Instead, she sought a different type of companionship.

She opened the door to the Forensics office, stopping shortly when she saw Ed and Kristen speaking in low, even tones. Her smile widened when Kristen kissed his cheek, and turned to walk away; seeing Sylvia, Kristen blushed a shade of pink.

"Oh, hi," she said modestly. "I was—"

"I know what you were doing, I'm sorry for interrupting," Sylvia apologized, taking a step back. "I can come back if you want..."

"It's fine," Kristen said quickly, smiling sweetly at Ed before turning to Sylvia. "I have a few records to file anyway. I best get to it, actually. This city keeps all of us busy, doesn't it?"

She waved at Ed before leaving the room. Sylvia looked after the records custodian before turning to Edward Nygma, who wore his regular white lab coat; he fixed his askew glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, smiling broadly when he saw her. However, something of Sylvia's expression made his own harden.

"What's wrong?" Ed asked quickly.

"Nothing."

"I hate to say it, but I'm pretty sure you're lying. You don't look like 'nothing' is wrong. You're acting like there's a _lot_ of something wrong."

She raised her hands shoulder level.

"You got me," Sylvia admitted, but she quickly dodged the topic, "Looks like you and Kristen are getting along swimmingly."

"Do you mind closing the door? If you don't, this office will have people coming and going—you won't know if we're the exit or the entrance."

"I know the feeling," She muttered, thinking of how often Jim came and gone in her club, while she closed the door with a _click._

Ed straightened his glasses once more before tightening the knob of his microscope. On the thin plate was a gelatin substance—not quite jello, but it reminded Sylvia of dried blood.

"Care to talk?" Ed asked, offering one of the stools for her to sit on.

"Do you have the time?"

"For you, I have an eternity. Please...I insist." He offered the stool beside him again, patting it before returning to his microscope.

Sylvia sat down.

"What seems to be the problem? You don't seem like yourself."

"You've hit the nail on the head, but I honestly didn't come here to talk about _me_." Sylvia offered kindly. "In fact, I'm trying to avoid the subject altogether. Instead, I want to know how things are going between you and Kristen."

"We're having dinner at my place at eight o'clock," He offered congenially. "But..." He stopped for a second, looking at Sylvia for another hot minute before returning to his microscope, saying, "Never mind."

"What?"

"It's nothing."

"Hmm, I think you're lying. It's not 'nothing'. It sounds like something. What is it that you wanted to say?"

Ed paused, straightening, and fixing his tie before he leaned his backside against the counters behind him. He turned to Sylvia completely—gaze, body, and all.

"I'm at a crossroads, so to speak," Ed confessed, interlacing his fingers in front of him.

"Why?"

"I overheard Kristen and Dr. Thompkins talking in the records room."

"Eavesdropper," Sylvia teased.

"Nothing as sordid, but yes."

"What did you hear?"

"I heard Kristen tell Lee that she thinks I'm hiding something from her. That she wished I would open up..."

Sylvia cleared her throat, crossed a leg over her knee, and said plainly, "Well, Ed... Technically, you're hiding something from her. The murder of Officer Dougherty."

"If I tell her what she wants to know, she'll think I'm—"

"Or maybe not," Sylvia interrupted, standing.

"I think I'll scare her away if I tell her about Dougherty."

"Then don't tell her," said Sylvia, gesturing to him.

"But she told Lee that she thinks I'm hiding something. And that I'm too gentle."

"Well, God, Ed, that doesn't necessarily mean that she wants to know you hacked up her abusive ex-boyfriend and threw him in the river," Sylvia said bluntly. "I mean, if anything, she wants you to roughen her up a little—sometimes a woman wants to see her man get rough."

Ed's eyes widened to the size of dinner platters: "You mean, she wants me to _hit_ her?"

"Only if she's into that kind of thing," said Sylvia quickly. "Look, Ed. Kristen dated Flass—"

"—A waste of oxygen—" Ed grumbled.

"—And then Dougherty—"

"—I'm so glad he's dead—"

"—But now she's dating _you_ ," said Sylvia, gesturing to him sweetly. "You're kind, and thoughtful—you tell her she's beautiful, and you treat her well. That's all a girl really asks for. But sometimes, Ed, women like a little rough-housing."

Ed stared at her: "Do...Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Like that kind of thing," Ed said shyly.

"Damn straight I do," said Sylvia mischievously. "I could tell you what I like, but you might get embarrassed. The takeaway from this, my dear Ed, is that you can tell Kristen anything you want. Personally, telling her that you killed her ex might be a little too much. She's not like some women who don't give a shit about murder..."

"Like you," Ed offered.

"Right, so, if you tell her this, she might flee to the hills," said Sylvia.

"She knows I'm hiding stuff from her."

"Aren't we all?"

"It makes me nervous."

Sylvia sighed, crossing her arms: "Wine and dine her tonight, Edward. Tell her what she wants to hear."

"What's that?"

"That you love her," said Sylvia tiredly. "You _do_ love her, don't you?"

"I do."

"Tell her that tonight. For all you know, that's what you're hiding from her. Officer Dougherty—for all you know—is on vacation, hitting and punching some other fucking broad."

Ed blinked: "That's a little harsh."

"Well, it would be true if you didn't kill him. So, may all the ladies in Gotham thank you for your selfless act."

A moment passed during which Ed processed this information. It seemed to make as much sense to him as it did to her.

"Thank you for the advice; this has helped me a lot."

"Any time."

"Is there a way that I can help you with _your_ situation?"

Sylvia chuckled derisively, "What makes you think I have a situation?"

"Well, for starters, you're avoiding talking about yourself," Ed pointed out. "You have bags under your eyes, like you've not been sleeping, and you're not as…. what’s the word I'm looking for….well, you're not your usual abrasive self."

"I'm having a few personal troubles. Nothing that I can't handle."

"Marital problems?" asked Ed, cocking his head a little to the left.

"In-Law problems," Sylvia corrected. "But I'm working through them."

"Kristen has some humorous set of parental units," Ed divulged. "They named her Kristen Kringle. K-K. I feel like I would like them."

"They certainly do share your quirky sense of humor."

"Are you certain that I can't be of any help?" Ed offered once more.

"Not really, but I appreciate the thought. Tell me how it goes, 'Kay, Ed?"

Ed nodded.

Sylvia walked out of the Police Department, ducking from view whenever Capt Barnes strode through the main entrance. She needn't another conversation with that man if she could help it.

**Chapter 34: A Wifely Queen**

Sylvia stood behind Oswald while he sat on his throne.

Standing behind him, Sylvia had started a slow massage across the nape of his neck, in hopes that this would lessen his tension and provide some sort of relief physically, if not emotionally. The longer his mother was held captive, the harder it seemed for him to concentrate on anything else other than getting her out of the creep's clutches.

While he became obsessed with the mission of rescue, Sylvia took control of business matters. In the past twenty-four hours, she'd met with the leader of the Five Families; half of the leaders were despondent taking orders from a woman, but the rest soon followed suit when they realized how organized she was—not to mention the fact that she'd threatened them all with a machete in any case they decided to start a mutiny.

She'd made the payoffs with the captains that lined the docks and kept up the bootlegging, paid off the guards around the ports, and even some of the dirty cops that were embedded within the GCPD. _That_ certainly made things awkward—for the officers, not for Sylvia.

Making deals with the Underworld's boss had been simple when it was Penguin they were dealing with. When Sylvia had paid their visit, all of them had a hard time looking her in the eye. Maybe taking money from the King of Gotham's wife had been more awkward when they also remembered that she was the Detective's sister. Instead of meeting eyes with the Queen of the Underworld, the only eyes the officers could see were those identical to their brother-in-arms, Jim Gordon.

After she'd met with the GCPD rats, she spoke to a few of the club owners that were in the Narrows. Most of them paid tariffs to the leader in the Narrows, a fat man by the name of Sampson. They feared and loathed the man and had to pay protection fees to keep themselves protected from _him;_ the Narrows residents had to pay double if they wanted protection from the other scumbags that dwelled in the sewers.

Sylvia offered an under-the-table deal to the residents in the Narrows. By pooling their money to the King and Queen of Gotham, Sylvia would offer to protect them from the sewage, so they didn't have to pay double costs to the man who threatened their everyday lives.

50% of their wages—that's what Sampson was demanding. 80% if they wanted extra protection. Sylvia only demanded 20% (with 10% divided between herself and her husband)—she wasn't greedy.

So, the money flowed from not just the docks, the club owners, and the Five Families, but also from the Narrows as well.

Since Oswald had slowly become an emotional butterbean from dealing with Galavan's shit, Sylvia had made a reputation for herself; she was the Queen, not because she was married to the King of Gotham, but because she could _rule_ like a Queen—even if her own life was a royal wreck.

Her people to include Henry, Dagger, Chilly, Tiffany, Mr. Bell, Josh, Marcy, and Freda were not the only people who saw this. Oswald's people, to include Butch, Gabe, and Stanley (who'd healed nicely from the wounds handed to him after telling him about the Count House raid) had taken notice of her efforts as well.

In their silence and waiting for Butch to return with what was hopefully good news, Oswald broke it with his own soft voice.

"When I became the King of Gotham, I had _no_ idea how well you would excel at being my Queen."

Sylvia followed the nape of his neck with her thumbs, adding pressure, while the rest of her fingers slowly slid around to his throat.

"Well, I wasn't born a leader," said Sylvia modestly. "I had to learn. And you make an excellent tutor."

Oswald allowed himself a small smile, hearing her praise. He didn't say much of anything, only smiling when she undid his tie and relaxed the collar of his shirt so as to allow her hands more access to the tension of his shoulders.

"Anything to report?" Oswald asked.

"Nothing worth raising a fuss over."

She rounded the chair, scooting the leg of it with her foot so she could sit in his lap. The hem of her knee-length dress rose above her thighs, and she was unfazed by the sharp sound of her heels falling off her feet and clattering to the wooden floor.

Oswald looked at her curiously, even more so when she continued rubbing his shoulders as though she'd not been interrupted with her small adjustment.

"Tell me anyway," Oswald said firmly.

"As you wish, I met with the people at the Docks. They made their payments, the like—a few pirates came by a couple of weeks ago, robbed them blind, but otherwise, they're doing super."

"Did they recover from the robbery?"

"I didn't ask," said Sylvia, shrugging nonchalantly. "Their payments came on time, and there's no blood on the pier—I'm assuming that they didn't get hit too badly. If they did, they'd find their burglars, strip them of their useful assets, skin them alive, and then collect what was left and pawn it for collateral."

Oswald gave her a look.

Sylvia smirked, "Or at least, that's what I would do. Otherwise—No troubles."

Oswald accepted this with ease: "What about the Five Families?"

"I met with them yesterday. Old men—all of them. They're too traditional, too old-fashioned. You should have seen how tightly wounded they got when they realized they'd be taking orders from a woman. Times are changing, so must _they_."

"Did you receive any pushback?" Oswald questioned darkly.

"None. A few disgruntled men grumbling from the choir, but otherwise, full obedience. You have them nicely in line, Mr. Penguin."

"And the GCPD?"

"Everyone that was in your pocket is still in your pocket," Sylvia reported easily. "All paid-up. If I were you, I'd certainly consider expanding your reign towards the inner-workings."

"Meaning?"

"Rookie cops. The older ones are jaded, sure, but the newer ones don't have a taste of the money they could get just by giving you the details of any new missions."

"The younger officers are fresh out of the academy. That Strike Force for instance—"

"—Give it another month. At this rate, most of them will have been shot or killed in the line of duty."

Oswald turned his head slightly so he could drink the rest of the glass empty. When he did, Sylvia took the empty glass and placed it on the table behind her. She returned her hands back to his shoulders, smiling when he appeared a little more relaxed, but otherwise troubled.

"You're settling in your role very well it sounds like. Better than I expected, actually."

"When you married me, you wanted more than just a wife. You know how I am, and you know how I operate. You were my co-worker—under Fish— then my fiance, then my boss, then my partner, then my husband. If you didn't want me doing all of this," Sylvia sighed, referring to the meetings and debt collection on his behalf, "then you would not have married me."

Oswald said incredulously, "Pigeon, you've got me all wrong. I'm not disappointed at all."

Sylvia cocked her head to the side.

"In fact, I'm impressed. You've done an amazing job in my stead."

"Well, don't expect me to keep it up for long," said Sylvia tiredly. "People have no idea how hard it is to be the Queen of Gotham. Lucky for me, I have a man who likes taking control."

Her words were suggestive in nature, and Oswald noticed it right off the bat.

Sylvia kissed him on the cheek, and then moved the kiss to his lips. Oswald responded to her, kissing her back.

He could feel how much she loved him. Every touch from her hand was a loving gesture; every kiss from her lips was passionate and affectionate. And in every moment, they shared, Oswald could see there was more love in her eyes than she could verbally express.

She was a Queen fit for the throne, and sometimes, maybe the throne and Oswald himself may have been undeserving of such a royal monarch. Oswald could think of many moments when he was undeserving of such a fiery spirit but in each of those situations, Sylvia always chose him, didn't she?

Physically, he could be there for her. His body yearned for her—every part of him needed to be touching hers. But mentally and emotionally, he could not be. He worried more for the other half of his family, which, in turn, was inadvertently causing him to neglect his better half; Sylvia wasn't ignorant to the fact when he reluctantly pulled away from her sexual advances.

Sylvia looked at him, at first affronted, but then smiled understandably. She caressed his face, her thumb gently stroking and following his jaw line.

"I'm going to bed," She mumbled. "I love you, sweetheart."

"I love you too."

"Don't stay up too long. Even the King needs to sleep."

Oswald smiled in response.

They kissed once more before Oswald watched her leave the room. A minute passed before he asked Mr. Bell to get him another drink.

An hour went by.

Oswald glanced up to see a figure strolling into the Meeting Room, a mallet in the place where a hand used to be. It was Butch. He sat down, looking more done with the bullshit than Oswald had ever seen.

"A mallet," He noted, looking at it amusedly. "That's...useful."

"Don't even start," Butch tiredly warned.

"You bring good news, I hope?"

"I'm in. I'm in good."

"And?" Oswald interrogated. " _And_?"

"And I'm asking questions," said Butch earnestly. "But I told you. Galavan's a smart guy. If I ask too many questions, he'll be onto me."

Oswald placed the glass down, looking boldly at him.

"Butch, look at me."

Reluctantly, he met his eyes.

"Are you my servant?" Oswald questioned, knowing the answer.

"Yes," said Butch, his eyes and mouth twitched with the effort.

"Do you obey me in _all_ things?"

"Yes."

"Then why do you bring me excuses? Go find my mother. Before I chop off your other hand."

"Yes, Boss." Butch said, nodding obediently. "I figure you should know though. Galavan's asking questions too."

"Questions about what?"

"Sylvia."

Oswald's eyes flickered to Butch suspiciously: "What _about_ her?"

"Nothing too particular," said Butch warily. "But it's weird. He's asked me how she's doing, and what has she recently been up to…. what kind of restaurants she likes…."

"Why is he asking those questions?"

"I don't know. Galavan's not subtle, but...he's a creepy guy."

Oswald scowled, "Sylvia mentioned he has 'a thing' for her. He might be trying to distract you with these inquiries..."

"He doesn't know that I'm still working for you. So, he can't be distracting me from anything. Maybe, he just likes Sylvia."

"Sylvia isn't interested. Tell Galavan _that_ the next time you see him."

Butch sighed, getting to his feet. It was time to go back to the Galavan mansion anyway. Oswald watched Butch leave, glaring at his glass the entire time.

Galavan was inquiring about Sylvia. Why was he doing that? Was he really that interested in her?

And why wouldn't he be, Oswald pondered darkly. Look at her—Sylvia was beautiful. A real redheaded flame.

Oswald cleared his throat after drinking the rest of the wine that Mr. Bell had silently produced. Then, he stood and strolled into the hallway, stopped at the bedroom door.

He opened the door just enough where the light from the hallway shined in a little, but not enough to pour inside. In the doorway, he stood, seeing Sylvia lying on her stomach, her head tilted to the right; her hair puddled around her head.

Galavan wanted his wife.

Just that thought alone made Oswald want to spit. He was suddenly hot beneath the collar; he felt as though the temperature in the room had been turned up thirty degrees just in the past minute he'd stood, seething. Was it not enough that Theo Galavan had ahold of his mother in captivity, that the man would add insult to injury to even _think_ about asking his men about her?

Sylvia stirred in her sleep, shifting underneath the blankets.

Oswald licked his lips in thought, knowing all too well that Sylvia would have no other man but himself, but would that change over time? It dawned on him a few times in the past that she could get bored with him… _would_ she fall out of love with him and fall for another man? Or woman…

It could happen, Oswald relented.

But he'd be damned for it to happen without putting up a fight.

He closed the door, walking into the room completely. As he did, his clothes slowly fell to the floor as he undressed down to nothing.

He hadn't felt so angry when he'd come into the room to see her sleeping. But just _thinking_ of someone being with his beloved, casting him aside like he was a nobody again was enough to make his blood boil. He stopped at the foot of the bed; hearing Sylvia's soft sleeping sounds become something more.

A moan.

And with his eyes adjusting to the darkness, but the moonlight casting shadows through the blinds of the curtains, Oswald could see a little more than just the silhouette of her body underneath the sheets. Her hips danced, and wriggled; one hand was against the headboard, fingers spread; the other was hidden beneath her.

Was she…?

Oswald smirked. The wine in his system started titillating more than just his jealous tendencies. He knelt on the foot of the bed, taking the covers in his hands, and moved them slowly—so as to not disturb Sylvia's sexual musings.

It wasn't clear to him if she was asleep or just entranced by the heat of the moment, but whatever the cause for her distraction, Oswald was grateful. For when he slowly pulled the covers off the porcelain body of his beautiful wife, he was pleased to see her hand between her legs; he watched her body move in rhythm with the slow dipping of her fingers inside her cunt.

"You, Galavan..." Sylvia mumbled.

Oswald was ready to cause some massive destruction before he heard her next words…

"I'll fucking kill you…." Sylvia muttered again.

Oswald grinned widely. It didn't surprise him that the mere thought of murdering the man that caused both of their lives to become misery would make Sylvia horny. This was a woman who would fuck him after she killed three people in one night, not to mention how eager she'd been to fuck him before blackmailing Commissioner Loeb into hiring Jim Gordon as a detective again...even then, Sylvia had been certain that he and Victor were going to kill Loeb—how disappointed she'd been when Sylvia found out that they were there to threaten, not to maim.

Her mind certainly was devious.

Seeing Sylvia finger herself to the idea of killing Galavan made Oswald groan.

His hand wrapped around his cock, pumping slow.

She turned on her back, thrusting her middle and ring finger inside her cunt vigorously. Her eyes remained shut; her lips parted slightly as she desperately tried to get herself off.

"Right there..." Sylvia moaned. "Mmm…fuck…"

Oswald stared at her; mouth open in deep-rooted amazement. Just a few hours before, his sex drive had been lacking...not that anyone could blame him. Now, as he watched Sylvia in all her curvaceous glory try to get herself off, Oswald's worries were out the door.

He leaned forward, quietly lying next to her on his side. She needed an extra push, that one trigger to make herself come.

He touched his lips to her ear, whispering, "You're a dirty little pigeon, aren't you, Sylvia."

As though sprung from her trance, Sylvia's eyes shot open, and she turned her head towards him, taken aback. Oswald smirked at her.

"Osw—"

"Don't stop," He ordered. "I want to watch you."

To encourage her, Oswald kissed her lips, slipping his tongue between them to capture hers. Sylvia continued to finger herself, her face and chest flushed red with a little mixture of heat, desire, and modesty.

Sylvia looked at him, noticing he was naked, and seeing how stiff his cock was just by having watched her. She hadn't any idea how long he'd been there, nor had she even heard him come in. Under his intense, hungry gaze, Sylvia blindly followed her orgasm, every part of her desperately calling for it.

"You're close, aren't you, Pigeon?" Oswald teased, licking her earlobe.

"Yes!" Sylvia whimpered.

"I can tell. Your body is starting to shake," He whispered.

He snatched her hand that was melded between her legs, and she nearly cried.

"How far did you get in your fantasy, my little murderess?"

"Oswald, please..." Sylvia begged.

_He knew what she wanted._

"Do you want to me to help you come?"

"Yes...!" Sylvia breathed.

_He knew how she wanted it._

"Do you want me to take control?"

"More than anything."

"Is that what you want?"

" _Yes_!"

He kissed the hand he currently held, licking the excitement from her fingers like the decadent dessert it was. Sylvia bit her bottom lip, watching him.

Oswald moved between her legs, groaning when his cock made contact with her wet, slippery entrance. Sylvia wrapped her arms around him, her hands palming his backside, her nails digging, knowing it would only spur him on.

Slowly, he rubbed the head of his cock between her wet folds, rolling his hips to tease her. Sylvia's back arched, pushing her hardened nips against his chest. Her ankles lifted and linked around his own, so every part of her body made contact with his.

"I love you more than anything in the world," Oswald whispered. "You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, so much."

Sylvia lifted her head and pulled him into a kiss. He returned it eagerly.

He pushed inside of her, groaning when the muscles inside her cunt contracted around him. Their bodies were close together, his balance relying solely on his forearms and elbows.

He wanted her, fast and hard. But first...he'd have her begging for him.

She wasn't clueless to his game either. Sylvia's cunt clenched when he pulled out and her hips lifted to meet his when he thrusted back in. She let out a soft whimper when Oswald lowered his mouth to her earlobe, biting; in response, her fingernails dug into the muscle between his shoulder blades.

"Harder," Sylvia begged. "Please...harder."

"I know," Oswald uttered, kissing her cheek. "But patience is a virtue, dear."

Sylvia let out a whine, agonized by his slow thrusts.

And god, did he enjoy it. Her expressions of pleasure outweighed her small cries of impatience. He relished every sound.

To quell her whimpers, Oswald slid a hand between them, and, with the pad of his thumb, he began to massage circles around her clit.

"Mmm…." Sylvia sighed. "Goddamnit, baby. _Stop_..."

"I know you like this. Stop pretending you don't."

"Fuck you..." She moaned.

Her back arched when he rubbed over her clit especially hard, and her hips violently jerked upwards.

"You said you wanted me to take control, did you not?"

"Yes..."

"That is what I'm doing, Pet," Oswald condescended.

It wasn't lost on either of them that while in bed, Sylvia loved being scolded and patronized. Sylvia became submissive, looking up at him reproachfully. She lifted her head, and licked his jaw imploringly, seeking out repentance.

When it came down to it, he was still her boss and she was still his subservient.

Still, his thrusts were nice and slow. Her body tensed around and against him, her thigh muscles twitched sporadically. Oswald could see the desire beneath her hooded eyelids, how she was slowly becoming undone.

Sylvia whimpered, "I want to come..."

"And you will." He promised lowering his lips to her ear, whispering, "But not just yet."

Sylvia looked at him, and there was almost a true terror in the way she did. Oswald continued the slow agonizing thrusts, relishing the way she impatiently groaned, but that inner submissive was out to play. She followed his movements eagerly.

He reached down between them again and played with her clit. Sylvia let out another whine, gritting her teeth when he pinched it.

"FUCK!" Sylvia cursed.

Oswald covered her mouth with his hand, smirking when she glared at him, narrowing her eyes. But it was well-deserved. He, too, was getting impatient; blood was pounding in his cock and he was ready to do a little pounding himself.

When Sylvia reached out to touch him, he grabbed her wrists in his free hand, and pinned them above her head.

Sylvia looked at him like he was a god.

And that was all he needed.

Oswald quickened his pace, shoving his cock inside of her. Sylvia's eager, pleasurable screams were stifled behind his palm. With all of his anger and (most recently, his past jealous tendencies), he thrusted inside Sylvia, and had her writhing beneath him. Her screams and his grunts filled the bedroom and when he came inside of her, Sylvia was thrown into a strong, convulsive orgasm.

Her body rocked the bed, and he only became a little concerned when every muscle in her extremities seized, her back arched high, and in a minute, every part of her relaxed. Her breathing, which had been constricted before, became small gasps of air; her eyes fluttered open, and a small smile praised her mouth.

"I fucking love it when you're rough," Sylvia mumbled, looking at him with heart eyes. "I like being your mood outlet."

Oswald sat up, leaning his back against the headboard, breathless. He couldn't agree more.

During their rendezvous, he didn't think once about the stressors of his life. With Sylvia, he could forget them, but when their time passed and reality struck once more, Oswald would soon become filled with worry and anger once more.

The same worry passed over his facial features, and Sylvia noticed it. How could she not?

"Did Butch say anything?" Sylvia asked. "I heard him come in."

"Nothing useful," Oswald responded.

Sylvia licked his cheek. He looked at her, surprised. But when the moment passed, he couldn't help but smile at her.

**Chapter 35: The Hardest Chapter To Write**

It had been twenty-four hours since Butch had gone back to the Galavan Mansion. He regularly came back to report his findings (or more recently, his lack of). While Oswald remained seated in the Meeting Room, Sylvia paced back and forth.

"Where is he," Sylvia muttered. "He should be back by now. What if they found him out—oh, I knew I should have been the one to go in. But then again, he _has_ been fairly cautious, maybe he went out for a fucking hamburger or something and the workers got his order wrong, so they had to make it again..."

Oswald looked at her, split between allowing her to pace and calming her down. It was a hard decision, considering he had the same concerns…. well, the fast food dive might have been a little out there, but otherwise, the same. He wasn't so vocal of his thoughts as she clearly was.

"He drove there in that _stupid_ Honda," said Sylvia breathlessly as she continued to pace around the room, her heels clicking the hardwood floor. "Maybe he got in a wreck, or he forgot to check the oil and it finally burnt out—you know, I keep telling him to put that fucking car in the fucking workshop, but noooo, he says 'I know my car, Liv, I've got this'. Well, if he comes in and says that the car finally blew up on him, let me tell you what—He'll be in a _world_ of 'I told you so'."

"Sylvia..." Oswald began, but her rant continued.

"Forget the burger or the oil fire," she added, giving him a second's look before turning around and pacing in the reverse direction. "I'll bet you he finally found a hot date. Instead of coming back to this mansion, he probably decided to catch a little tail, do some dating—and what are the odds that this date of his went well...it could have gone badly...the guy doesn't exactly scream 'charm'. Have you ever seen Butch try to flirt with a girl? It's like he's a gorilla, a more _lively_ and _charming_ gorilla, but he'd be better off slinging his shit at another handsome gorilla. He's got character, I tell you that much, Oswald. But other than that, zero charm. Zero."

"Sylvia, sit down, you're going to wear a hole in the floor," Oswald ordered.

"I'm too nervous," said Sylvia. "My nerves are getting to me. They're all jangled and mangled, and any other word you can think of. And it doesn't help that I drank a pot of coffee this morning—I was so tired this morning that I decided to drink _another_ pot of coffee. I'm all fucking jittery…. oh, hey, when did we get this painting?"

Oswald let out out a sigh of relief when Sylvia stopped to admire a crudely drawn but famous art piece, created by the artist by the name of Picasso. It was abstract art, and Oswald nor the vendor could figure out what it was or what it meant, but it'd finally revealed its purpose: to make Oswald's wife calmer and less talkative.

Honestly, the woman could talk for ages.

Sylvia cocked her head to the side, looking like one of the admirers of an art gallery who was trying their hardest to figure out what the art piece was supposed to be. Apparently, she was stumped too.

"It looks like a dog," Sylvia uttered, rubbing her chin, perplexed.

"If you say so, dear." Oswald mumbled, rolling his eyes.

"Or a bird. It looks more like a bird…. but what kind of bird...now, that's the mystery."

Oswald stood and faced the fireplace, more content to revel in its orange and yellow flames. Sylvia continued pacing once she'd tired of the painting.

She wore all black; from her off-the-shoulder long-sleeve shirt, to the knee-high skirt, to her mid-calf, black, laced boots. Despite the worry on her face, Oswald could say that his wife looked stunning in anything she wore—even baggy sweats...even the look of worry looked good on her.

"Butch should be here. He's been gone a _really_ long time."

Oswald glanced at her.

"Aren't you worried?" She asked incredulously.

"I am."

"Well, try being worried with me. It might relax me a little."

"If I allow myself to panic like you, then we _both_ will be panicking One of us needs to keep a level head."

"So, we'll panic in shifts," She said, fidgeting with her fingers. "I'll take the first shift."

Oswald suppressed a small smile of amusement. Even when Sylvia was under stress or—as of right now—in a world of panic, she still never failed to amuse him. Her sense of humor definitely had a hold on him.

"I'd tell you not to worry but I'm given to believe that won't stop you from the fact," said Oswald knowingly.

"You can read me like a fucking book," said Sylvia nervously. "Look, Oz. What if Butch _doesn't_ come back. I mean, Galavan and his sister are fucking sadists. What if they just killed him _on sight_. Boom, bam, thank you, ma'am. No warning, no ill-advised funny comments, no last words. And, like, what if they're on their way _here_ to get rid of us. Once Galavan wins the fucking mayor election, he won't need us anymore, you know. He won't need you. He won't definitely need me—it'll be a closed casket, for sure. Definitely…."

Oswald sighed deeply.

"Sylvia, stop talking."

"I can't help it. I talk when I'm nervous. I'm nervous when I talk."

Oswald held her hand, pulling her to him in front of the fireplace.

"Look at me."

"What if they dump our bodies in the river," Sylvia continued fretfully. "Jim will never know I'm dead. No funeral, no post-marked, over-due bills. Our existence will be wiped away, just like the Waynes did to the Dumas, and we will never have existed. We'll be a town where the fucking tumbleweeds don't even blow—and you know the Galavans are capable of that, they're fucking insane! And I know what fucking crazy looks like: My sister-in-law was going to be Barbara Kean for fuck's sake—"

"Pigeon, look at me. Right now."

Sylvia looked at Oswald. He gathered her hands in his.

"Nothing is going to happen to you. Nothing. Do you understand that?"

"I know, but—"

"I said 'do you understand'." Oswald firmly.

Sylvia bit her bottom lip, her eyebrows furrowed in fear.

Fear looked odd on Sylvia. Oswald realized that he rarely ever saw her panic. She always somehow kept it hidden, locked under whatever capsule that hid her other human emotions. She only ever allowed people to see her happiness and her anger. Only _he_ was permitted to see her panic and her sadness. And this, alone, made him love her even more.

"You're safe with me," Oswald reassured softly. "Nothing and no one will hurt you."

"You can't promise me that, " said Sylvia, shaking her head. "I know you mean well, I do. But you can't promise something like that. But I appreciate the sentiment, sweetheart."

Oswald brought her towards him, locking his arms around her back. Her head lied on his chest, and she seemed to calm once she heard his heartbeat. The crackling of the fire, his breathing, and the small thump-thump she felt against his neck were the only sensations in the room.

That was until Butch stumbled in, looking like he'd been thrown through the woodwork full of thorns at hyper speed. He limped forward, cringing when he finally leaned against the table. Oswald let go of Sylvia, who looked just as concerned that Butch appeared the way he did.

"Butch!" Oswald said, surprised but eager to see him. "What has happened?"

"I found your mother," Butch managed, wincing.

Oswald was happy.

"Where?"

"In a warehouse," He answered, "by the port. But they caught me looking..."

Then Oswald was pissed, taking Butch by the collar of his shirt, and nearly shaking him.

"You _half-wit_ , _if they kill my mother—_ "

"But they don't know I'm here!" Butch interrupted, raising his hand and mallet. "The tiger lady, she wanted to take her time with me, so she chained me to a wall—"

"—That's a little extreme," Sylvia noted.

"—And I got out. We gotta go _now_."

Oswald smiled, elated overall.

Sylvia raised her eyebrows and let out a long, slow, shaky sigh. It was amazing how many emotions and personalities Oswald could go through in a single minute.

"Yes...yes, yes," Oswald began, chuckling a little. "Very good, Butch." (He straightened Butch's suit from where he'd ruffled him up earlier). "Your loyalty will be rewarded handsomely. I swear it. Rest here for a minute…."

Oswald encouraged Butch to have a seat, "I'll gather the troops."

"I'm coming with you to the mansion," Sylvia quipped.

"You most certainly are not!"

"I did _not_ learn all this shit from Mr. Bell and Victor Zsasz to _not_ incorporate it in my day-to-day life as a gangster," Sylvia argued. "You want a wife, fine, but I'm the motherfucking Queen of Gotham, and I refuse to stand by—"

" _Fine_ ," Oswald interrupted, holding his hand up to her. "You want to come, _fine_. I'm learning that it's just easier not to argue with you..."

"It's about fucking time," Sylvia responded, crossing her arms. She glanced at Butch, smiling, "How's it going, Butchy."

Oswald ordered, "Stay here, do _not_ leave without me. Do you understand me?"

"I understand."

"Good." He sighed, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. He moved to gather the troops.

"You might want to get armed," Butch advised, side-glancing Sylvia warily.

"Think we'll run into trouble, do you?"

"For once, I'm not just 'thinking'. I know we will."

"Geez, Butch. That's a little ominous—even for you."

"I'm just saying."

"Right. I'll get ready—but do not leave without me."

"I'm not going anywhere." Butch said, waving his mallet at her.

Sylvia quickly left to the bedroom, where she raided her wardrobe. Under the clothes and shoes, she lifted the panel of the floorboard and revealed a stock of weapons to include knives and a variety of handguns. One handgun was placed between the waistband of her skirt and her bare skin; one knife was slid between her boot and ankle. Another was strapped against her inner thigh. In her hand, she would carry a handgun.

Sylvia strolled back to the Meeting Room, noticing that two men, Stanley, and Josh, were standing, ready and at attention.

"You're coming along, huh?" Sylvia said, looking at Josh sternly.

"I refuse to leave you alone," said Josh quietly. "You're not going in there with just Mr. Penguin's people. You'll need one of yours too."

"You're a kid."

Josh looked stubborn, making his chest more poofy and trying to make himself look taller. He wanted to prove himself.

"You're going to get yourself killed," Sylvia warned.

"I don't have any family. You're my family. I figured I'd rather get killed _protecting_ my family."

"You have an interesting take on the word," said Sylvia darkly. "But if you want to come, fine by me. I doubt we'll run into much trouble anyway—what with Butch being the informant, and all of us headed there like cattle over a fucking river. The only thing we're missing is a fucking shepherd."

Sylvia looked him over, noticing the only thing that Josh held was a knife.

"You'll need something bigger than that, kiddo," said Sylvia, tossing him her handgun. "You know how to shoot?"

"I used to shoot at squirrels as a kid," said Josh quietly.

"Humans aren't squirrels."

"But they move slower...and that'll make a huge difference."

Butch glanced at Sylvia incredulously: "Where did you find this kid?"

"On the streets," said Sylvia. "Most of them just need some place to belong. Ain't that right?" (Josh beamed with praise.)

Oswald returned to the Room with two other men. Bullets were placed on the table while the men loaded up their weapons. Oswald glanced at Josh curiously, glancing at Sylvia in return.

"This is Joshua," said Sylvia, inclining her head to the young man in question. "He's coming with."

"Using your umbrella boy as back-up," Butch muttered, glaring at Sylvia.

"You'd be surprised how skilled Umbrella Boys are. If Fish tracked that fact, she wouldn't be dead in the ocean, would she, Butch-y Boy?"

Butch glared, but dulled it as he averted his gaze while Oswald looked at Sylvia—he didn't think it was possible to love her any more than he did, but his heart swelled five times bigger when he heard her speak. No doubt, she was referring to him and his accomplishments. Sensing the tension but admiring the aspect, Josh quickly gathered an extra clip of ammo and shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans.

"Are you sure about this?" Oswald asked Sylvia as they headed out of the mansion, followed by their rag-tag team.

"About killing Galavan and his sister—absolutely," said Sylvia enthusiastically. "Your mother has spent enough time with them. After this, we should all go out to eat. I'm thinking some place with menus that have pictures of food."

Oswald side-glanced at her but was satisfied with her answer.

The warehouse in question was surrounded by other warehouses. It was curious how Butch had even found Gertrud but leave it to the man of remarkable intelligence to reveal that he had some unremarkable detective skills.

Stanley and Josh followed closely behind Sylvia, who strode with the same pace alongside Butch. Every now and then, Butch looked like he wanted to admit some infidelity; Sylvia noticed that he wasn't twitching like he used to, like when he was given an order or told to do something he honestly didn't want to do.

Also, he looked apologetic whenever he and Sylvia made eye contact.

"You okay, Butch?" Sylvia asked as they made their way to the warehouse on foot.

He nodded.

It wasn't a long walk, but since they didn't allow cars on the port, it was a bit of a stroll. Sylvia held a gun in her hand, much like Butch, Stanley and Josh. From time to time, Sylvia glanced over her shoulder to make sure that Josh was still tracking behind her; the closer they inched towards the warehouse, the more reluctant she felt to have him with her.

Not because she doubted his ability, but because she truly did feel responsible for him. He said she was his only family. Not Penguin nor Butch made his family list; He'd once told her that he looked at her like a mother. At first, Sylvia thought it was a sweet sentiment...but now she wondered if it was more than affection.

"Are you sure this is it, Butch?" Oswald asked, not looking at the man.

"I'm sure."

"Once we make sure my mother is safe. We go after Galavan and his sister. They're going to _pay_ for what they've done."

Sylvia strode slightly behind Oswald, her eyes looking everywhere but in front of her. She expected an ambush—anything at this point.

"You know you remind me of your brother," said Butch softly.

"That's an odd sentiment to express just moments before we find Gertrud," Sylvia pointed out, glancing at him curiously.

"Just in the way you act. You have the same reaction to little noises, like something might come out and attack you."

"Well, he's a cop and I get myself into this kind of thing at least once a week, so I say my reactions are self-explanatory; genetics have nothing to do with it."

Stanley and Josh followed up on Sylvia. Butch pointed to a particular warehouse and they all followed suit.

Walking in, Sylvia smelled a distinct odor: mainly garbage waste and running sewage water. It leaked from the ceiling—bad plumbing. Josh, Stanley, and Sylvia slowly edged inside while Oswald hurried inside once he saw his mother through the caged door.

Sylvia grinned widely when Gertrud's squeal of happiness could be heard.

"Mother!" Oswald called.

"Oswald!" Gertrud called back, grinning just as happily. She stood and held her hands out through the holes of the barred door, embracing him as best as she could. Looking over his shoulder, she cooed, "Little Sylvie—you're both here, you've both come! Oswald, is that really you? Your sweet face, like a vision!"

"I'm taking you home," said Oswald reassuringly. "Okay?" He stepped back, retrieving a pair of metal, steel bolt cutters from Stanley.

As he stepped forward to unlock the cage, the fluorescent pale lights clicked and were turned on to reveal Galavan and Tabitha standing in the flesh.

"And there I was," said Galavan arrogantly, "Thinking you understood the meaning of consequences."

Sylvia, Stanley, and Josh cocked their weapons, aiming it at the pair.

"Consequences, yes," said Oswald, looking at them with hatred in his eyes. "I assure you that my understanding of consequences will be made quite clear once my mother is outside."

Tabitha said sweetly, "But we've had such fun together."

Oswald and Sylvia glared at her. If looks could kill…

"My sister gets attached to her playthings," said Galavan apologetically. "So, I must insist she stay. And those bolt cutters simply won't do…the only way out of that" (he cocked his head to the steel cage) "is with this..." (he dangled a key in front of Oswald, like it was a worm on a hook.)

"Very well," said Oswald (none too disappointed). "Butch, shoot them both in the head, and grab the key."

"Oswald!" Gertrud whimpered.

"I'm sorry, Mother, but what they've done to you will not stand."

Crickets…

Sylvia, Stanley, and Josh glanced at Butch expectantly. When nothing happened, Oswald shouted, "I gave you an order, now shoot them both in the head!"

Butch held his gun out, aiming it at Tabitha and Galavan. Then, unexpectedly, turned his gun on Stanley and Josh, shooting them (as ordered) both in the head. He grabbed Sylvia, and without missing a beat, disarmed her, including the gun that was pressed against her back, throwing both clear across the room. His arm was wrapped around her neck, his gun now cocked and aimed at her head.

Gertrud squeaked in fear while Sylvia, the angry woman that she was, spit curses at Butch. Her eyes cast downward at Josh who was dead on the ground, his hand still holding the weapon she'd given him only an hour beforehand.

"You, fucking traitor!" Sylvia shouted furiously, "you, fucking—mm!"

Butch silenced her, pushing his arm up to cover her mouth. His forearm was so big, she couldn't even gauge her teeth over his skin to take a bite out of him.

"No," Oswald muttered. "No, no... That’s not possible..."

Sylvia tried to reach down to her boot and get her knife but Butch thrust his arm up, keeping her still.

"You have to obey me," Oswald said helplessly. "You have to!"

"That time has passed," said Butch unhappily. Lifting his eyes over Oswald's shoulder to the Galavan duo, he added, "They fixed me."

"Tabby is well-versed in the protocols of conditioning," Galavan said lazily, smirking at them.

"There's always a trigger word implanted in the process," said Tabitha, smirking sideways at her brother. "All I had to do was get him to remember what it was. I admit, it took a few tries."

"And now…." Galavan drawled. "Here we are."

Oswald dropped the bolt cutters, realizing just how stuck in the mud he was. Sylvia continued to struggle to get out of Butch's grip but for all her training, Butch was just too big.

"Please." Oswald said shakily. "I can still be valuable. You'll see."

"I so wish that were true," said Galavan.

"Then kill me if you must but let her go."

"No!" Gertrud squeaked.

"Mm-mm!" Sylvia growled.

"I'm begging you," Oswald said helplessly.

Tabitha scowled, "That doesn't look like begging to me."

"Indeed," agreed Galavan. "Half-hearted, at best."

They both looked at each other as though they equally shared the same inside joke before turning to Oswald expectantly.

Oswald exhaled a deep sigh before awkwardly lurching forward to get on his knees, looking up at Galavan and his sister, clasping his hands together.

Galavan smirked at Sylvia saying, "See, Mrs. Cobblepot? Do you see what your husband is truly made of?"

Sylvia narrowed her eyes at him, letting out a snarl. Galavan couldn't hear what she had said, but he seemed to get the gist. He reverted his eyes back down to Oswald, who desperately appealed to his humanity.

"Please," He begged. "I'll do anything. Anything you want."

A moment passed.

Galavan sighed deeply, saying, "Perhaps she _has_ served her purpose."

"Hmph."

Galavan turned to his sister: "Don't pout. You still have the former mayor."

"But he's so dull," whispered Tabitha. "All he does is moan half the time."

To emphasize his order, Galavan held out the key. Tabitha grumbled under her breath before she moved to let Gertrud out. Once she did, Oswald's mother quickly moved forward and Oswald stood to his feet, gathering her in his arms. They embraced happily.

Butch lowered his arm and Sylvia glared at him.

"You're a deceitful, fucking troll, you know that," Sylvia seethed.

"You know I had no choice," Butch said.

"That doesn't make me hate you any less. You killed Joshua."

"He was just your Umbrella Boy," Butch murmured. "You'll find another."

"And what about Galavan? You don't think he won't find another brainwashed, dipshit like you? He'll dispose of you the same fucking way you disposed of these people," hissed Sylvia harshly. "The only difference—For what it's worth, fuck-rod—Josh was family."

"I told you everything would be okay," Oswald said happily, holding his mom. "And it will be!"

Sylvia saw it happen before Oswald realized it a moment later. Tabitha lunged forward, and stabbed Gertrud in the back. Butch's eyes widened, but he immediately pulled Sylvia back; he really fought to keep her restrained as Sylvia screamed.

Oswald embraced his mother, and he saw the knife sticking out of her.

"No!" Oswald shouted. "NO!"

His mother became dead weight, losing her balance; he lowered her down to the ground, and held her in his arms. Sylvia managed to get out of Butch's grip only for a moment, stripping the knife from her thigh and storming towards Tabitha before Butch lunged forward, dropping his own gun to wrap his arms around Sylvia. He hoisted her up and pulled her back.

"MOTHERFUCKERS!" Sylvia cried.

"Put a gag on that woman for God's sake," Galavan sighed. He glanced at Tabitha tiredly, saying, "She doesn't stop talking, does she?"

Butch stifled Sylvia's angry cries with his hands; she continued kicking, trying to get out of his grip. But to no avail.

Oswald sat on his knees with Gertrud in his arms; perhaps she couldn't feel the pain, but she seemed to know something was off. Oswald was crying.

"What is wrong?" She asked gingerly. "You look so sad."

"Nothing's wrong, Mother," Oswald comforted, trying to put on that tough front. "Nothing at all. We're together now….and that's all that matters. That's all that ever mattered, right?"

"Ever since you were a little baby…My little Cobblepot."

"I'm sorry," Oswald sobbed. "This is my fault. This is my fault, please forgive me, I'm so sorry."

"For what? You were always such a good boy!"

The light left her eyes, and all that was left were the remnants of what used to be. As her body became nothing but dead weight, Oswald cried deeply, slowly lowering her body to the floor. He leaned over, kissed her forehead, and wept. Sylvia had stopped struggling to go after Tabitha; instead, she now struggled to try and meet her husband on the floor to comfort him. However, Butch grunted and kept her back.

Apathetically, Galavan looked at Butch, saying, "Kill them" (he referred to Oswald and Sylvia) "and dump the bodies...anywhere."

The Galavan duo started to walk away.

But Oswald's anger was back.

"You don't have the stomach to kill me yourself!" Oswald growled, his voice echoed off the walls, causing Tabitha and Theo to stop in their tracks. "No _wonder_ your family was run out of town. You come from a long line of cowards!"

Galavan looked at his sister before he strode forward: "Fine...fine..."

He bent down at the waist to gather Butch's gun that was dropped in the process of him trying to restrain Sylvia.

"Who should I kill first..." Galavan hummed. "You..." He pointed the gun at Oswald. "Or perhaps what's left of your dismal family, hm?"

He pointed the gun at Sylvia, who flinched from the metal end. The anger in Oswald's eyes briefly flickered to that of fear, but that rage...it remained.

"If you kill her," Oswald said darkly. "You best be ready to aim the gun at me too."

"You couldn't stop Tabby from putting a knife in your mother's back," Galavan chuckled. "What makes you think you could stop a bullet?"

As a point, Galavan gestured for Butch to let go of Sylvia, who stumbled when Butch threw her forward. When Galavan reached to grab her arm, Sylvia fought back, but he had a lot stronger grip than what she'd expected. He pulled her to him, her back flush against his chest. He snaked his arm around her waist, keeping her in what felt like a python's embrace.

"How fast can you move, Penguin?" Galavan taunted, placing the gun to Sylvia's neck.

Oswald gritted his teeth, eyes blazing, and he started to move. Galavan cocked the gun and pressed it underneath Sylvia's jaw. He stopped in place.

Instinctively, she tried to turn her head—not that it would allow her to evade the impending death if the gun went off.

Galavan kissed Sylvia's earlobe, whispering, "Darling, did I ever mention that I still want you on my team? I think we could make a fabulous couple, you, and me. Me as the new Mayor." He kissed her neck. "You, as my _beautiful_ first lady...We'd make quite the power couple, don't you think?"

Oswald glared at Galavan. Hatred had never been more transparent on him.

Smirking, Galavan moved forward, bending down so Sylvia had to as well.

"Any last words before I take your precious 'pigeon' with me for…. safekeeping?" He taunted.

"Yes." Oswald breathed.

"Oh?"

Oswald slowly withdrew the knife from Gertrud's back: "I'm going to kill you!"

He grabbed Sylvia's shoulder, pushing her down to the floor as he sliced the knife across Galavan's neck.

"Move!" Oswald shouted.

Sylvia got to her feet.

When Butch lurched forward to get Sylvia, Oswald pushed her out of the way and stuck the knife into Butch's thigh. The man grunted, disarmed, distracted.

Tabitha aimed the gun and shot after them, missing them by a hair.

Both of them crashed through the window.

Sylvia dropped onto the ground, rolling on her back before getting to her feet. She caught Oswald when he was half-way down, catching half his weight so he needn't fall on _his_ back. Together, they ran forward and off the port. Sylvia sprinted ahead, catching the nearest cabbie, chucking him out of the driver's seat.

"HEY!" The cab driver shouted.

"Get the fuck out of here or I'll skin you alive!" Sylvia snapped.

The driver raised both of his hands and said quickly, "No problem, no problem, Yeeeeesh…." And ran in the opposite direction.

Sylvia opened the passenger side where Oswald hopped in, closing the door while Sylvia sat in the driver's seat, stomping the accelerator, speeding away.

With the cops sure to flitter about after learning that Oswald Cobblepot had attempted to kill the now-Mayor, going to the mansion wasn't the best idea. People will have assumed that they'd gone underground, and that's exactly what they were going to do.

Under the Falcone mansion were tunnels and rooms that no one but the crime families knew about—and since Falcone wasn't playing the game anymore, only the Cobblepot Crime family knew.

Sylvia drove the cab half a block away before ditching it; she and Oswald ran up to the mansion. She flipped a switch and kicked the welcome mat that was placed in front of the entrance off the doorstep, so a stairwell began to mechanically appear.

Down the steps they descended.

Now safe from prying eyes, Oswald sat on the concrete floor, his back and head resting against the wall, while Sylvia flicked the switch on a pillar; the stairwell that had appeared now began to fold against the wall as though it never existed.

Gabe, Mr. Bell, Dagger, and Chilly met them underground, looking surprised to see them in such a haggard state.

"What happened, Lady Cobblepot?" Mr. Bell questioned, his eyes lifting to watch the rest of the steps of the stairwell disappear into the wall.

"Galavan's what happened." said Sylvia harshly. "The fucker killed her."

Gabe's mouth opened in shock—he'd danced with the lovely woman a few times, and she had even taught him (and Sylvia too) how to ballroom dance. He grumbled and scrunched his face angrily, wanting immediate gratification. Mr. Bell glanced at Dagger and Chilly, who were just as shocked that Galavan would actually go through with it.

"Mr. Bell," Sylvia called as she strode through the various rooms, coming back to the original with a handset—it appeared to be a wireless land line phone, but it wasn't tracked.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Where's Henry, and the others?"

"At the club. Do you want them to—"

"No, I don't. Make sure they stay there. Tell them not to say anything about what's happened tonight," Sylvia ordered. "Galavan will go to the press with this, and they'll do everything but eat him alive."

"Do you want them to go into hiding as well?"

"No. They need to stay at the club."

"But Galavan might come after them, Lady Cobblepot."

"He's not after _me…_ or my people," said Sylvia. "He's after the election, and after _him_ " (she nodded her head to Oswald who remained on the floor, his head bowed in his hands) "and I don't need my brother asking me questions too early on. If he sees the club deserted, it'll prompt his captain to be more interrogative. And I don't need to talk to that man."

Mr. Bell nodded dutifully.

"Anything else?" He asked before leaving for the stairwell.

"Get Victor."

"Any message to pass along in any case he asks why he should come?" said Mr. Bell.

"He won't need one. He'll come because I've asked him too."

"Yes, ma'am."

"When you contact him, call him with this phone—it isn't traceable."

With that said, Mr. Bell took the wireless phone, bowed, and then left towards the other tunnels.

"Liv…." Gabe began.

Sylvia put a hand up in front of him, saying, "I know you want to talk to me about what just happened, Gabriel, and I appreciate it, but I can't."

"But Liv…."

" _What_?" Sylvia snapped.

Gabe opened his mouth to speak, but it was like all the words he had ever thought to use were suddenly sucked out of him like a vacuum. After a moment of trying to formulate what he wanted to say, he nodded dutifully and allowed her to continue moving about the tunnels.

"Where's Butch?" asked Dagger.

"He's defected," Sylvia answered coldly.

"What does that mean?"

Chilly gave him a look, saying, "The fucker split. He's not a part of us anymore. He's on the other team. He's a traitor—"

"Okay!" Dagger snapped. "I get it!"

"Well, you weren't getting it before!" Chilly retorted.

" ** _Shut up_**!" Sylvia shouted, rounding on them.

Gabe, Dagger, and Chilly looked at her quickly and all three large, stocky men startled at her tone. In turn, she gave them each a task they would carry out and they proceeded with little delay, in hopes that Sylvia wouldn't shout at them again. A bullet wouldn't terrify any of them, but Sylvia's icy stare would turn them cold in a matter of seconds.

While everyone did what they needed to do, Sylvia let out a shaky sigh, turning to see that Oswald hadn't moved from his corner against the wall.

"Oz..." Sylvia began, moving towards him.

"Don't." Oswald said quickly, holding his hands out in front of him.

She reached out to him, but he moved away from her.

"Don't touch me." Oswald murmured. "Please. Just leave me be...for now."

It was so hard to obey that order when all she wanted to do (not just for him but for herself) was to sit beside her husband and comfort him. He would hold himself to a high standard, to put on the tough mask when he was in front of his men, but Sylvia had always been able to see his softer, gentler side.

Then again, he'd had to beg in front of her for his mother's life. He had to watch Galavan potentially threaten to take the love of his life away from him, even see him put his hands on her. There were many things he had to do and yet, nearly none of it had paid off in the long run.

"Sweetheart..." Sylvia began.

"Please." Oswald said quietly, looking down at his knees.

"Okay…Okay."

She walked away, only stopping to see him cradle himself in his arms.

What the others could see was the King of Gotham. What she saw was a son who'd just witnessed his mother being killed in front of him. And it hurt.

She moved through the tunnels, listening to the rats that moved through the vent, and the occasional drops of water that seeped through the pipeline. The air beneath the mansion was stale, like it hadn't circulated in a while; and it was cold. Right now, Sylvia needed a little air conditioning for all she felt was grief and anger.

And for her, she couldn't feel such strong emotions at the same time. She needed to handle one before tackling the other. And because she was still a Gordon, she chose anger.

Mr. Bell came down a different set of stairs—those belonging to the back of the mansion that had the same switch and hidden staircase—accompanied by Victor and five of his associates, all dressed in black leather and punk gear. When Victor saw Sylvia, she realized she'd not seen herself in front of a mirror to decipher why there was a flicker of emotion in the hitman's eyes.

From crying, Sylvia's mascara and eyeliner were running beneath her eyes and down her cheeks. The rest of her was covered in dirt and grime, and her ponytail was slightly disheveled with a few hairs strung out in abandon. Victor approached her wordlessly and put his arm around her.

Sylvia flinched at the touch—not because it was Victor—because she wanted to feel anger. Perhaps that's why Oswald didn't want to be touched; he needed to accomplish what he needed to do with anger, not sadness and comfort.

"I'm sorry," Victor said softly.

"I know you are," She returned dryly. "But I don't need apologies right now. I need action."

Victor indicated his team: "We're all in. What do you want to do?"

"Wait for now."

Victor followed her further into the tunnels; their heights were so different, but with Victor on the prowl and in close proximity, Sylvia didn't feel too troubled at the moment.

"Galavan will be going to the police station first," said Sylvia knowingly. "He'll tell everyone what's happened—that my husband tried to kill him a second time. The GCPD will be up in arms about it."

"And your brother?"

"He knows Oswald. Galavan can make up some shallow story, something to do with the election—sounds like something he'd do...he'll make it somewhat believable to explain his neck. But Jim isn't going to believe it. Oswald isn't impulsive, not completely; he's a pragmatist."

"You have a lot of faith in what your brother will or will not believe."

"He's had a lot of interactions with Oswald by now. He knows what he may or may not do. Now if Galavan tells Jim that _I_ stabbed him in the neck, Jim won't even doubt it," Sylvia said humorously. "He knows I hate the fucking asshole. I'd stab the fucker just on basic principle whenever it suited me."

"So, what do you want to do first?"

"First? We'll go after Butch."

"Why him?"

"He defected."

"Changed sides, did he?" Victor said callously. "Why am I not surprised."

"Tabitha changed his wiring—fixed him up. She got him to remember your trigger word—that whole thing really fucked us in the ass, you know."

"Well, I _do_ good work," said Victor defensively. "I can't help it if there's another artist out there who does the same."

"Butch killed Josh. I don't just want him because he defected to the other side. I want him because he killed _him_."

"Your umbrella boy?" Victor recalled, looking at her incredulously.

"Yes, Victor."

"You've got a soft spot for Umbrella Boys, don't you, Liv?"

"I'm not in the mood for your teasing, Victor. I swear to god—"

Victor held up his hands in surrender slowly: "Fine. No teasing. But Liv…"

"If you're going to tell me you're sorry for my loss one more time, I'm going to shoot you in the knee," Sylvia threatened.

"I wasn't. However, if that would make you feel better, I'll give you this once-in-a-lifetime shot at the title."

"Don't flatter yourself," Sylvia responded. "Shooting you won't make me feel better."

"Probably for the best."

"Why?"

"You can't threaten me with a good time, Pumpkin."

"Doesn't make a different either way, Precious." Sylvia said, rolling her eyes. "Hurting you wouldn't make me feel better."

"Then maybe this will."

"Victor, no—what are you doing—no, no, no... Goddamn it."

He hugged her. One, strong, tight hug that pulled her to him: chest-to-chest. So tight that she couldn't pull out of it, even if she wanted to. And that simple gesture pulled on her heart strings to the point that her eyes started watering.

"Victor..."

"I know you, Liv," said Victor as he pulled back, looking at her closely. "You're the Queen of Gotham and all that jazz—"

"—Victor—"

He smiled at her saying, "You're still Sylvia Gordon. You can wear the crown all night and day and hide under the mansion with the rest of the rabble, but you know where you really belong."

"I am _not_ going to hide in my club while the rest of you get to do all the dirty work."

"Keep up appearances," offered Victor, smirking. "If you want Penguin to be the innocent one, then that's what I suggest you do. It's what your people need to see—"

"Gotham can kiss my ass."

"I'm not talking about Gotham," Victor reminded. "I'm talking about _your_ people. Henry, Freda—all those millennials you've employed—they need a leader. They won't know what to say to the GCPD when they storm through and start interrogating everyone; you _know_ that's what it will come down to, Liv."

"But Oswald—"

"Penguin is gonna do his own thing. The King isn't dead."

"The Queen's job is to _protect_ the King. I can't just leave him…."

"Well, you've seen it already, Liv; the man doesn't want your protection."

Sylvia glanced back at Oswald. And Victor was right. He was standing, fixing his suit from where it was roughed up in the process, with murder in his eyes. With his outspoken plea for Sylvia not to touch him, he would be in this murderous state for a while.

"Be the Queen that you are," Victor advised. "Straighten your crown, go to your club, and rule your people. We can handle it from here."

Sylvia opened her mouth to speak, but Victor interrupted her: "Liv, stop talking—for once—and just do as a friend suggests."

"Fine. But keep me informed, okay? I'll see if I can put out the fires before shit goes up in flames."

Victor offered her a cell phone.

"I _have_ my phone," Sylvia stated obliviously.

"This is a personal one. It has my number in it, and only mine. If you need me for any reason, just call it. It's non-traceable, and—more importantly—it has my favorite ringtone on it."

Sylvia clicked through the settings and pushed the option to hear the ringtone. _Funkytown_ started playing.

"You're a different type of insufferable. What's _my_ ringtone?"

"Call me and see."

Sylvia dialed number 1 and she waited.

 _Buttons_ by the Pussycat Dolls started playing.

"You're such a dick," Sylvia chuckled.

Victor shrugged, none too offended.

"Call me when and if something happens."

He nodded.

" _Pigeon…"_

Sylvia stopped mid-step on her way out and turned to see Oswald approaching her. He looked like he was on the brink of falling apart but was also somehow—by luck or happenstance—managing to keep himself together.

Victor cleared his throat, excusing himself and pulled his men (and women) around and away from what could be assumed as an intimate moment. Sylvia watched them before looking at Oswald.

"Be careful," Oswald told her softly.

"I will be."

She smiled and began to leave, but he took her wrist; the gentle gesture stopped her in her tracks. Sylvia turned to look at him again reproachfully.

"You're still my girl?" Oswald asked.

"Always," She returned wholeheartedly. "I love you, sweetheart."

"I love you too."

Against what seemed to be his better judgement but for the betterment of both his sanity and emotional strength, he caressed her face and kissed her. Sylvia startled at the notion—considering the fact that not more than an hour ago, he had demanded that she not even touch him.

Upon her lips being captivated by his, Sylvia could feel the heat of his face contrast with the tear-stained dampness of his cheeks. Sylvia rested her hands on his chest, taking the lapels of his suit between the pads of her fingers and pulling him even closer to her.

When the kiss naturally broke, Sylvia looked at him curiously.

"Keep Victor informed," He instructed, the protective edge was back in his tone. "You don't go anywhere without telling him you're leaving, and you don't enter any building until you brief him. Is that clear?"

"Crystal."

"If Galavan comes after you—"

"—He won't—"

"But if he does—"

"He _won't_. He's already made one move too many on me, and the next time he does, I'll cut his pecker off."

Overhearing _that_ , Victor said, "Excuse me—he did _what_ now?"

Oswald glanced at Victor with his own curious expression before reverting back to his earlier statement.

"Be safe. Be careful. Meet back here tonight."

"Will do," She returned sweetly.

He kissed her again, and Sylvia returned it. She turned to Victor, saying, "Care to walk me out?"

"Fine, but we're going to have to talk about this thing with Galavan. You said he hit on you?"

"We'll talk about this on the way to my car," said Sylvia, rolling her eyes.

Victor glanced at Oswald, saying, "Boss, did he actually try to—seriously, are you _kidding_ me!"

"Victor, stop talking and _walk_!" Sylvia insisted, taking his shoulder, and moving him towards the stairwell.

As Victor strode up the stairs before they completely revolutionized, he was still pissed off: "How long have we been work-married—this is unforgivable..."

Sylvia glanced at Oswald humorously before she followed Victor up the stairs.

**Chapter 36: The Real Theodore Galavan**

Jim sat on the edge of his desk, opposite of Harvey Bullock. The recent polls were in—Galavan was going to win the election by a landslide. It seemed like there was a small lull in the action, something that rarely ever happened in the GCPD, or in Gotham for that matter.

"Looks like you backed the right horse," Harvey said, gesturing to the television. "Do you trust him?"

"He's a politician," said Jim pointedly. "I trust him as far as I can throw him."

"With that arm of yours, probably not far."

"Ha-ha. If he gives the GCPD what it needs to get this city under control, he has my vote."

Jim looked at Harvey, the gears in his brain turning at full speed: "You know, Selina mentioned that it was Penguin who was behind the Wayne Enterprise fires."

"Yeah, so?"

"First he's going after mayoral candidates, then he's burning buildings down to the ground," said Jim suspiciously. "It doesn't make any sense."

"The guy's an abacus of crazy," Harvey rationalized. "Nothing he does surprises me. But..."

"But what?"

Harvey leaned towards Jim, saying, "What does Liv have to say about any of this?"

"I've not talked to her since we went after Bridgit Pike. But she's been acting strange too."

"Well, not to offend you or anything, Jimbo, your sister is a strange girl—all around."

"Stranger than _usual_ ," Jim specified, giving him a look. "Sylvia wouldn't talk much—"

"—That's not like her at all," Harvey agreed, nodding.

"That's what I mean," Jim insisted. "And when I tried to get her to talk about the mayoral candidates, she refused to give me any information. Any _useful_ information. And she denied knowing who was setting the fires, claimed to not even know who Bridgit was or the brothers that forced her hand."

"Well, Jim—if Penguin is the person behind all this," said Harvey logically, "maybe you ought to consider that your sister is, you know, _married_ to the guy. Whether you accept it or not—she's going to protect that bird of hers, no matter what he does. Murder isn't exactly a turn off for her."

Jim cringed, "Please don't talk about her that way."

"What—I'm saying—she _knows_ what Penguin's capable of. She _knows_ he murdered Fish—threw her off the ledge and into the ocean. Do you see her applying for a divorce? Do you see her stark-raving mad about that social injustice? No. No, you don't." Harvey returned lazily. "Penguin's the poster boy for 'crazy', but I gotta give him credit; he struck _gold_ when he found Sylvia. That girl's loyal to him...even though he can be dirt bag from time to time."

"Stop talking," Jim muttered, rolling his eyes.

Just as he spoke, the lull in the action ceased. Jim and Harvey's attention moved to the figures of District Attorney, Harvey Dent, following newly elected Mayor, Theo Galavan, into the room adjacent to them to discuss such intimate matters. Noticing the dreaded looks, Jim stepped towards Barnes.

"What the hell happened?" Jim questioned.

Barnes looked at him: "Penguin just tried to kill our new Mayor."

If that wasn't a hook….

Jim and Harvey exchanged curious expressions before following the trio inside the room; Barnes closed the door and stood behind his desk, looking at Galavan, who was prompted to explain the recent happenings.

"Mr. Cobblepot knew I was poised to win the election," said Galavan calmly. "And he came to me today, seeking an alliance."

Jim stared at Galavan, and said skeptically, "And you refused..."

"I politely declined, yes," Galavan clarified, smiling modestly. "I want nothing to do with his world of crime; it's what I've been meaning to eradicate after all."

"Was Sylvia present?" asked Harvey.

"Who?" Galavan responded almost immediately.

Jim said coolly, "Sylvia Diana Cobblepot. She may also go by Gordon."

"Ah, your sister," Galavan nodded, smiling that still-modest smile. "No. I don't recall."

"So, when you refused," said Harvey skeptically, "he stabbed you in the neck?"

"That seems like a pretty extreme reaction," Jim noted to all in the room. "Even for Penguin."

"From Sylvia," Harvey pointed out, "I could probably expect it. She's impulsive and angry" (He smirked at Jim) "Isn't she, Jimbo."

Jim rolled his eyes whereas Capt. Barnes looked less than amused.

"We have been trying to build a case against Penguin since I got here," said Capt Barnes firmly (ignorant to suspicious looks that both Harvey and Jim were sending Galavan, who exchanged said looks with curious ones of his own). "We assume he is responsible for the earlier attacks on the mayoral candidates..."

" _And_ he just tried to kill me a second time," Galavan emphasized.

"And he's a man that I fully intend to put behind bars. Now, Detective Gordon" (Jim looked at Barnes readily) "I don't know whether or not your sister is involved, but if she is..."

"She's an honest woman," Harvey mediated, glancing between Jim, Barnes, Dent, and Galavan. "But she's protective of Penguin. We can make a deal with her. If we ask her what's going on with Penguin, she'll probably just hand over the information if it means protecting him."

"I doubt she will," Galavan uttered.

Jim glanced at him—his suspicion was just tugging on his gut, like a monkey jumping on vines.

"Why do you doubt that?" Jim asked defensively. "A moment ago, you couldn't remember who she was."

"Gordon, the man was stabbed in the _neck_ ," Barnes reminded. "He can't be expected to remember every name and face we throw at him."

Jim cleared his throat, still trying to see through Galavan as he moved towards Barnes, "Let me talk to her—"

"You may very well have to," Harvey Dent poised, approaching the desk.

"Meaning?"

Barnes turned to Dent expectantly; the attorney nodded and pulled a document from the inner pocket of his jacket.

"An arrest warrant for Oswald Cobblepot as well as search and seizures of all his properties and known associates, including," Dent said calmly, "the interrogation of his spouse, Sylvia Cobblepot 'nee' Gordon."

Barnes previewed the stated names and associates, noting, "That's quite a list. We'll get right on it. Anything else?"

"Yes, there is. In lieu of recent events, Judge Turnball has declared a state of emergency and granted the mayor's office additional powers."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Barnes questioned.

"Meaning," said Galavan, drawing all eyes on him, "the moment I'm sworn in, I am implementing a curfew" (Jim looked at him indignantly.) "and I'm ordering your Strike Force to begin door-to-door searches until Mr. Cobblepot is apprehended."

"Hold on," Jim interjected, "You're talking about martial law?"

Barnes side-stepped the desk, approaching him.

"We're talking about bringing a dangerous fugitive to justice." He reasoned. "We will be acting within our legal rights, won't we?"

"Absolutely," Dent vowed.

Barnes turned to Galavan saying, "You have our full support, Sir."

"Thank you, Captain," Galavan said sincerely; they shook hands.

Jim left the room, feeling more burdened by the new Mayor than he'd ever felt with any other candidate. Door-to-door searches would cause a panic within the city….and then, there was also Sylvia…

" _Detective Gordon..."_

Jim turned when he heard his name, spoken by the very man that was drawing more and more suspicion towards him.

"In the office," said Galavan coolly, "You seemed...hesitant..."

"Overtly cautious," Jim corrected.

"You told me we needed to use every method at our disposal to bring people like Penguin to justice—people who no longer—and probably have never—played by the rules. Desperate times call for strong measures."

"I have no problem going after Penguin with everything we've got. But if we start kicking down doors of average citizens, policing through fear, then we are no better than he is. People still need to trust us."

"And they will," Galavan promised. "At the end of the day, people just want to feel safe."

Jim noted that sound of the word. 'Safe'. But was that what Galavan really wanted?

"I thought maybe there was another reason for your hesitation," said Galavan calmly. "Something more."

"Such as?"

"Well, I have no doubt that you're concerned for your sister. She's somehow involved, and I can only imagine how hard it is to sail through these murky waters when they involve someone like her. Penguin would be 'brother-in-law', correct?"

Jim nodded.

"All of this must be difficult for you," Galavan sympathized, crossing his arms over his chest. "Nothing in the GCPD is completely black and white—there's an awful lot of gray, isn't there?"

"Right."

"I imagine that she's just blinded by love, right? People like Penguin can be _so_ manipulative...hopefully, it's all just 'wrong place, wrong time'… that sort of thing."

"Yeah," said Jim, his voice hallowing. "Hopefully."

"Just remember, Detective. You came to me."

Jim watched him leave. That statement alone made his skin crawl, the muscles in his neck to tighten. It was like a tick had burrowed into his skin and while he could somehow dig and light the body on fire, the head was still there...eating him alive. His suspicions were stronger now than they had ever been before.

Was his love and need to protect Sylvia causing his suspicion to grow, though.

Maybe.

But then again, everything seemed too well constructed, too organized to be just a coincidence.

And Galavan was partly correct on one fact: People like Penguin could be manipulative. But that was coming from a man who didn't know his sister very well. Between Sylvia and Oswald, Jim was certain that if one could manipulate the other best, it would be Sylvia. She had Oswald Cobblepot wrapped tightly around her finger—the man would do anything for her...anything…

Perhaps, even try to kill Galavan…? But even if his sister had that much of a pull with Penguin, the man wasn't easily manipulated himself. Not enough to bring heat on himself, at any rate.

Something didn't add up.

But for now, they'd start finding Penguin's associates, find them, find some answers, and gather more information.

But before he started the investigation…

He'd need more coffee.

Harvey sat at his desk; Jim sat in his. Jim was calling people; Harvey was calling _his_ people.

Sylvia would hold some—if not all—the answers he needed but he was reluctant to investigate. A part of him was certain that she was behind some of the attacks on the mayoral candidates, was somehow involved in the fires. While Sylvia had a pull with Penguin, Jim knew that Oswald heavily influenced her. His sister also was Oswald's enabler…

And despite what Galavan said, Jim was certain that Sylvia had been present for whenever Penguin had stabbed their newly elected mayor.

Jim knew she wouldn't say all, tell all. When it came to protecting and defending Penguin—Sylvia was as honest as she came. Brutally honest, yes, but honest.

"Boy," sighed Harvey, "I can see those gears burning steam."

"Hmm?"

Harvey smiled knowingly, "You're thinking about her, aren't you?"

"How can I not?" Jim returned irritably. "None of this makes sense."

"Well, not to add to the sudoku puzzle going on in that small brain of yours, Jimbo, but I've got another piece for ya. Apparently, Butch Gilzean is held up in this booze joint downtown. And guess what? He's started his own crew."

Jim leaned back in his chair: "I guess he and Penguin had a falling out."

"Probably. Let's go check it out."

"Fine by me." Jim agreed, getting to his feet.

"Hey," Lee popped up, smiling widely at Jim. "I heard what happened to our new Mayor. Never a dull moment, is there?"

"No kidding."

"You left your keys in my apartment again," Lee noted, handing the key ring to him.

Jim noticed an extra key.

"What's this one?" He asked, holding it up.

"A key to my apartment," Lee returned casually.

"Oh?"

Harvey cleared his throat, saying, "I'll be in the car."

"Sure," said Jim, nodding. He looked at Lee again. "Um..."

"Relax. It's just a key."

"Oh, I know. I know. Do...Do you want one for my place?"

"You have a place?" Lee replied, smirking.

"I suppose I'm in yours a lot more."

"I don't mind. I love it. What I _don't_ love," said Lee half-joking, "is hauling ass out of bed at 2 am when you come back from a stakeout smelling like chili dogs."

She leaned in, kissed his nose, and smirked when he looked uncomfortable.

"I love to watch you squirm," Lee teased.

"I do _not_ squirm."

She put her fingers close together, "Little squirm."

Jim watched after her and walked out of the precinct. He got his girlfriend's key to her apartment. New relationships, new problems…new commitments...new worries.

He joined Harvey in the car.

"So, got a key to your girl's apartment," Harvey noticed, smirking at him.

"I don't want to talk about that right now."

"So, let's talk about something else."

"Sure."

"Have you spoken to Liv?" Harvey asked as he started the car and drove towards the downtown bar.

"Let's talk about Lee."

"No, no, no, boy-oh," chuckled Harvey. "You only get one free dodge, and you already used it up. So, how come you haven't call Sylvia."

"I honestly don't know."

"Nah, I know you. You do know. For a fact, I know why."

"Then why the hell are you asking me?"

Harvey glanced at his partner, sighing deeply: "Look, Jim. If anyone knows what's going on with Penguin, it would be her, right?"

"Right."

"And you _did_ tell me that she had reservations about Galavan."

"I didn't think you could listen when you're gorging on hot dogs."

"Hardy-har-har," Harvey sassed back, half-smiling. "I was listening. You said that she didn't like Galavan. Wouldn't tell you why she didn't like him, just that she didn't. And I may not be so entitled to know what Little Sister is thinking, but I do know that she normally has a reason for not liking people."

"I know you know. The entire GCPD knows."

"Except Barnes—I've never met a man who clenched his butthole so tightly at the mention of her. Makes me like her even more."

Harvey parked the car in front of the joint, looking around to see that there weren't many people around. At least they could be discreet beneath the Gotham bridge. He turned off the ignition, looking at Jim with—for once—a sincere expression.

"You don't want to confront her, I get it. Because you don't want to learn what you think you already know."

"You think that's the reason, huh?"

"I know it is."

Jim looked out the window, thinking of her.

"I'm not stupid, okay," said Harvey. "I know you still look at Sylvia like she's your little sister, someone that won't do anything to anyone, who won't turn on anyone. But has it ever occurred to you that maybe she's not as innocent as you think? For all you know, she killed Caulfield, Randall Hobbs—"

"The witness placed Penguin at the scene for Caulfield's murder," Jim reminded irritably. "It wasn't her."

"Then she might have been responsible for killing Hobbs."

"It could have been Zsasz—"

"—Zsasz shoots," Harvey reminded. "Sylvia has an affinity for knives. And if I recall, Hobbs' body was carved like a turkey."

"I'm not worried about her having gone after Hobbs."

"So, you're not worried that she's probably responsible for one of the candidates' deaths...fine by me," said Harvey, shrugging. "So why is your head in the clouds?"

"Harvey…"

"What?"

Jim straightened in his seat, looking at him.

"Since Galavan came to town, things have been happening coincidentally. Just before Galavan came to town, Aubrey James went missing. At the massacre at the gala, he turns out to be a hero. And then the killing of all his competitors for the election, it launches his campaign. He becomes mayor—not by a landslide—but by default. And then there's Sylvia's silence..."

"Silence about what?" Harvey asked suspiciously.

"She's being threatened. She told me someone is threatening her."

"Did she say who?"

"No. She was adamant about not telling me. It pisses me off. She's had ample opportunity to tell me their name."

"Maybe it's Penguin threatening her."

"He wouldn't threaten her."

"Jim, the guy's crazy. You've seen what he did to Fish—"

"Penguin didn't love Fish," said Jim coldly. "He loves Sylvia. I hate to admit it, but I've seen them together. They love each other. Penguin wouldn't hurt her. And if he did, Sylvia would deal with it personally. That's just her M.O."

"Then it's someone else," Harvey offered.

"It could be anyone—she's the 'Queen of Gotham'. And I'm her brother. Between those two facts, she can have multiple enemies. One, two...fifty—it's astronomical. She'd only give me two facts: it's a male, and he's rich. And they have someone close to her. Someone she feels the need to protect."

"Well, it's not you," Harvey uttered, gesturing to him. "You're right beside me. And it can't be Penguin—he's been operating pretty well... _clearly_. You and Penguin are her only family."

"Right," Jim agreed. "But there's something I'm not getting. And hitting Galavan just because he says 'no'…that doesn't sound anything like Penguin. All that would get him is heat."

"Well, maybe Galavan made a move on his woman. Galavan gets poised for mayor, meaning he's got the jitters, sees Sylvia. Any man would hop on that pony—pardon the expression, Jimbo—tries to make a move while Penguin is fishing for an alliance. He sees Galavan hitting on his woman, and he moves to _strike_." Harvey made a stabbing motion with his hand. "Seems like something Penguin would do."

"Galavan couldn't remember who Sylvia was."

"Yeah...Or at least, _pretended_ not to know who she was."

Jim nodded.

"Even if all this mayoral crap was planned, it's a crazy plan—even for Gotham standards," Harvey added.

"I could feel better about this whole thing if I knew what Penguin was up to," Jim said quietly. "And how or why Sylvia is tied up in this whole thing."

"Well, how about we first deal with Gilzean," said Harvey, pointing to the bar. "And after, we both pay a visit to your sister. You've officially piqued my interest."

"Well, that's a step in the right direction."

"We'll need to get our foot in the door first. See if we can't do this nice and civil. We can see if anyone goes through that door, find a way in."

They waited. And sure enough, a pizza guy arrived.

"Well, sing 'hallelujah', and hail the Virgin Mary," Harvey said, grinning widely. "We just got our foot-in."

Jim and Harvey moved out of the car and strolled (because running would be too forward) after the pizza guy. Once the man had placed down the orders, they slid through the door, guns up and aiming straight at Butch and five of his newly recruited cronies.

"Damn!" Butch complained, looking at the table. "Are you kidding me?"

"I wouldn't!" Harvey warned the surrounding goons as they began to pull out their weapons. "Seriously. I really wouldn't."

"That's a lot of fire power there, Butch," Jim noted, nodding his head to the machine guns leaning against the wall adjacent to him. "Are you expecting some company?"

"Neighborhood ain't what it used to be, Jim."

"Where's Penguin?"

"I don't know."

Harvey chuckled derisively, "You're the boss' lap dog, and you don't know where your owner is?"

"I ain't nobody's lapdog. I'm my own man, now."

"Then prove it. Tell us why the hell Penguin went after Galavan."

"I ain't telling you anything. And, unless you have a warrant, I'm going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave."

"Yeah," Jim replied sarcastically. "Well, you see, our newly elected Mayor kinda wants results on this. So, if we drag you in, that's where you're going to stay. Got it?"

" _I'M HERE FOR GILZEAN!"_

Harvey, Butch, and Jim exchanged knowing glances. All of them recognized that voice. And it belonged to Victor Zsasz.

"Anyone who leaves _now_ ," Victor called, "leaves _alive_. Anyone who stays, _dies_. You have sixty seconds to do the math!"

"Well, it looks like Victor's still working for Penguin," Harvey muttered, smirking at Butch: "Guess he's after _you_ , huh?"

Butch glanced at his newly formed associates, inwardly debating their loyalty, which was proven shortly after when they all excused themselves in a hurry.

"Seriously?" Butch sighed exasperatedly.

"No honor amongst scumbags, huh?" Harvey questioned knowingly.

Butch made a point to get up and run himself, but Jim grabbed him, shoved him against the beam pole and cuffed him to it without hesitation.

"What are you doing?" Butch groaned.

Jim shoved a chair aside, squatting in front of Butch.

"Tell us what the hell is going on with Penguin," Jim ordered. "Or we will leave you here for Zsasz."

"You can't do that!" Butch complained.

"Harvey?"

"We can totally do that!" Harvey agreed enthusiastically. He moved over to the window, peeking out to see just how many people Victor had with him these days—there were several.

"Galavan was telling Penguin what to do," Butch complied quickly. "The candidate murders, the fires—it all came down from Galavan."

Jim responded incredulously, "Why the hell was Penguin taking orders?"

"Galavan kidnapped his mother, held her hostage for leverage."

 _Galavan._ **He** was threatening Sylvia.

Fuck!

"Kidnapped," Jim repeated. "Did Sylvia know?"

"She knew all right," Butch said, nodding vigorously. "Galavan was controlling Penguin with his mom."

"Why wouldn't Sylvia come to the GCPD," Jim demanded angrily.

"Galavan again. He told her that if the GCPD caught wind of anything, then something awful would happen to Penguin's mother—she couldn't come to you or anyone else."

"That bastard," Harvey cursed, glaring at Butch.

"She was protecting his mother?" Jim muttered.

"I didn't think he would go through with it," Butch breathed, shocked.

"Go through with what?" Jim demanded. "Go THROUGH WITH WHAT!"

Then the bullets started flying—shattering windows, punching holes in the doors, ricocheting off tabletops, and shredding the wallpaper of the little seedy bar. Butch ducked—as did Jim and Harvey. Jim threw over a table, and he and his partner hunkered down.

"We're outmanned here big, partner," Harvey groaned.

"Yeah. But not outgunned."

"Oh, hell yes!" Harvey called with glee.

He grabbed one machine gun and tossed the other to Jim. They clipped in the rounds, and fired off, pelting the glass and what was left of the door and windowpanes with rounds, exhausting all but the last of the clip. Then there was silence.

"I'll take that as a 'no'!" Victor called from outside. "I'll see you later, Butch!"

"We'd be well matched if Liv was with us," Harvey noted. "She loves shoot-outs. You know I hear she's been taking lessons from Victor—"

"Damn it." Jim cursed.

"What?" Harvey said, then when he turned, he saw that Butch was gone. "Damn it!"

Sylvia stood on the balcony of her club, hands gripping the railing as she cast her eyes down to the dance floor where a number of her regulars and even newer patrons slow danced to the melodic music played by the talented pianist on the stage.

Her thoughts—how conniving her mind worked—would revert back to the days when it was just Oswald and her working the club. Just before Fish was run out of town, how they'd celebrated their soon-to-come victory.

Gertrud had pulled her into an embrace, taught her to dance—even when Sylvia doubted her own ability to sing and dance. First, it had started out as a hidden talent, a small hobby...then with her influence and Oswald's confidence in what was now her current profession, she'd blossomed and bloomed to the professional dancer she was today.

Had Gertrud not taught her to waltz, Sylvia highly doubted she would have found a way to become what she was now.

And knowing this made her feel that much smaller.

Currently, she would give her arm and left leg to bring her back. Sylvia's own mother had gone when she was such a little girl, so it always had been herself, Jim, and their father—and occasional Uncle Frank. Aside from Fish Mooney (despite from the bitter ending), Sylvia had never known another mother figure. That was until Oswald had introduced the two of them.

First, she was the 'slut' who had kidnapped her son and entangled him in her 'demon purse'. And then soon after, Sylvia became her _lamm_.

What love had grown for the woman was nothing more than pain now.

"Vee-Vee..."

Sylvia turned her head slightly, registering that Marcy was talking to her.

Marcy wore black clothes, mirroring their Mother (Sylvia); half her hair was a deep shade of blood red, while the other was just as black as her clothes. Beside her, as always, was Freda, who carried in her hand a fresh cup of Starbucks. The two had actually spoken together, commonly speaking as one person instead of the individuals that they were.

"Yes?" Sylvia answered, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"Why are you sad?" Marcy asked.

"Is it the music?" Freda suggested.

"Maybe it's—"

"I'm sad," said Sylvia quietly, "because I've lost someone very dear to me."

"Do you want us to fight someone?" Marcy offered. "I'll kick a man in his craw hole—I'll do it, you know I'd do it! I'd do it for _you_ , Vee-Vee."

"Don't do anything," Sylvia advised darkly. "You were given your instructions from Mr. Bell, remember?"

"Yeah, Vee-Vee," Freda recalled. "You told us to stay put. But if someone's messing with you—it's that Tabitha Galavan bitch—I bet...We can—"

" _Just don't do anything_!" Sylvia snapped.

They recoiled at her harsh tone.

"Just go downstairs, get some ice cream," She requested, softening her voice. "I just need to think for a moment."

"Sure thing, Mrs. P, whatever you say," Freda responded, nodding adamantly. She took Marcy's hand and they walked down the stairs together, speaking in low tones.

" _Sylvia."_

She turned now to Tiffany who approached her with two martinis. She offered one to her.

"No thanks," Sylvia declined.

"You look like you need it."

"I want it, don't get me wrong. But alcohol is a depressant, and I'm already feeling depressed as it is. Drink it for me, would you?" Sylvia said, smiling gratefully at her. But the smile didn't reach her eyes.

"Something happened tonight, didn't it?" Tiffany said knowingly. "What happened? You can tell me."

"Galavan. Galavan is what happened tonight."

"That thing you told us—where we had to do whatever Galavan said—is it over?"

"It's not. It's just begun."

"What does that mean?"

Sylvia turned to her completely.

"Tiff, you've been a good friend, an excellent co-partner. But...I..."

" _NOBODY MOVE! STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE!"_

Sylvia and Tiffany leaned over the banister to see Harvey Bullock and Jim Gordon trudging through the dance floor; patrons moved to the side, scowling, or looking in their direction in fear. Following them were two rascals of the Strike Force, but it looked as though they'd come with their minimum forces.

Sylvia's heart raced—she'd thought they were about to get robbed or something.

Jim confronted Henry, who looked as though he was ready to fend off an army, despite the fact he was puny compared to him.

"Where's your boss," Harvey ordered.

Henry pointed up to the balcony. Tiffany looked at Sylvia worriedly.

"Go downstairs," Sylvia requested.

"Will you be okay?" Tiffany whispered.

"I will be fine. Do as I say, please."

"Yes, ma'am."

Tiffany curtsied then left per Sylvia's request. Tiffany passed Harvey and Jim on the way down; the rascals of the Strike Force remained downstairs. Sylvia noticed this and turned to both of the detectives, looking at them discernibly.

"Congratulations," said Sylvia dully. "You just gave about twenty of my Regulars heart-attacks."

"Stop the banter," Harvey said dismissively. "We need to talk."

"Fine."

She gestured for them to follow her into the office. She closed the door when all filed in.

"So, should I be concerned with the rabble downstairs?"

"The Strike Force is there to protect you," Jim informed.

"I don't need protection."

"Oh, girl," Harvey chuckled, "I'm pretty sure you do."

"No." Sylvia argued. "I'm pretty sure I _don't._ "

"Cut the crap, Vee," Jim insisted as he sat across from her. "We know everything."

"Do you?" Sylvia replied nonchalantly. "Why is the sky blue instead of yellow?"

"Okay," Harvey submitted. "Maybe not _everything_."

Sylvia allowed herself a small smile, looking at them.

"There's a warrant for Oswald Cobblepot's arrest," Jim informed calmly. "And there will be a search and seizure of all his territories as well as known associates for his whereabouts."

Sylvia shrugged casually, "That sounds like a police matter. It's not exactly any of _my_ business what you've all been instructed to do."

"Well, it is your business, Little Sister," Harvey insisted, leaning forward, "because _you_ are on the warrant."

"Search then," She said, holding her hands out to them. "Tip over tables, ransack my office."

"We're not doing that," Jim said as Harvey stood to take her up on her offer.

"The hell we aren't," said Harvey. "You may not like it, Jimbo, but we've got orders."

"Since when did you start following orders?"

After a beat, Harvey chuckled, sitting back down: "You know what, Jim. You've got a point."

Sylvia glanced between them suspiciously.

"We know Galavan put Penguin up to killing the mayoral candidates," Jim said calmly. "We know Galavan ordered the Wayne Enterprise buildings to be taken down. And we just talked to Butch—"

"'Talked' is a funny word to describe it," said Harvey amusedly.

"—And he said that Galavan kidnapped your mother-in-law," said Jim strongly, searching her eyes for confirmation. "We need to know if that's true."

Sylvia leaned back in her chair; arms crossed.

"Vee," Jim pleaded, "We need to know just _what_ we are up against."

"What I say won't matter," Sylvia responded heatedly, her eyes suddenly lit, her calm mask disappearing. "My word against the mayor's—you've got nothing when it comes down to it. The only thing these _people_ " (She gestured outside of the club) "will see is that I'm the Penguin's wife. What Galavan has done to _my_ family will _not_ matter."

"Vee—"

"He's a **monster** , Jimmy. A fucking monster. But he's got his T's crossed and all of fucking I's dotted. You can't win against him. Not the _legal_ way."

"Then tell us what we need to know," Harvey insisted. "Tell us what Galavan has done. We're cops—we can put this guy away for good—"

"I don't want him behind **bars**!" Sylvia snapped, getting to her feet. "I want him _dead_! What's he done to me is unforgivable and something as small as putting him in jail will not bring back what I have lost!"

"Butch said he kidnapped your mother-in-law," Harvey said, his voice sincere and helpful. "Did he do more than just that? Was Butch telling the truth!"

"That and more," Sylvia resounded, her eyes started tearing up. "He killed her, Jim. He fucking killed her—she died in Oswald's arms, and Butch—he fucking held me at gun point. He wouldn't let me go to him—he wouldn't let me comfort my own fucking husband!"

Jim and Harvey stared at her, their eyes, wide. Sure enough, Sylvia was crying in front of them. It was a shock to Harvey, considering he'd never even see her so much as shed a tear, and Jim hadn't seen her cry in a long time.

"Do you know where Penguin is hiding?" Harvey asked.

"No."

"You're lying," Harvey noticed.

"What if I am?" Sylvia threatened. "Are you going to bring me in for questioning?"

"No. I just know you're lying. You've covering for him. You know _exactly_ where he is. But you won't give him up."

"I'm done talking to you," said Sylvia, pointing at Harvey. "You want information, you take me in. Otherwise, I'm done talking."

She turned to Jim.

"You want to know who you're up against, James?" Sylvia breathed hatefully. "That mayor of ours is just as sick as the rest of us— _sicker_. Him and his sister alike. You want to make this right—you kill him, _on sight_."

"I can't do that," Jim told her helplessly. "We don't have proof."

" _You_ can't."

"You're threatening our mayor?" Harvey asked delicately. "We can bring you in for that."

"I never threatened his life," said Sylvia coldly. "Do I want him dead? Of course, I do. The writer who's been fucking up my favorite TV show also probably deserves to die, but I don't count that as a threat on their life either."

"Galavan is the person who's been threatening you," Jim said pointedly. "Isn't he?"

"Like I said, Jim—my word doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what I say—I'm on the fucking warrant, I'm the one who is being interrogated, and investigated. What I say has no weight. So even if I _did_ tell you that Galavan was threatening me, no one—and I do mean **no one—** would believe me."

"We're wasting time," Harvey said, nodding. "She's right. No one is going to take the word of a Kingpin's wife."

Sylvia gestured to Harvey, looking at Jim, saying, "There. See?"

"Tell the Strike Force to search what they need to search," Jim told Harvey.

"Jim, they're not going to find anything."

"Well, _they_ don't know that," Jim replied, inclining his head to the Strike Force downstairs.

"Okay. Have it your way."

He stood and walked out of the office wordlessly. Sylvia turned to Jim.

"I want to make this right," He said quietly. "I'm sorry for what you've been through, Vee. Really, I am."

"You've no idea what I've lost," said Sylvia, her voice breaking. "You have _no_ idea what I've been subjected to. So how _dare_ you stand there and **apologize**!"

"Vee, you could have told me it was Galavan—"

"—He had Gertrud! He had her locked up like some fucking _dog_ —"

"—And you're angry," Jim continued, rounding the desk, and approaching her.

"I'm pissed off," Sylvia agreed. "I'm furious!"

"And you want him dead," Jim said knowingly.

"You have _no_ idea!" Sylvia sobbed, tears falling down her cheeks.

"Penguin's going to go after him, isn't he?"

"Why are you asking me questions when you already know the answers to them!" Sylvia said helplessly. "He killed Oswald's mother, Jim! He put a knife in her back, and both Oz and I watched her fucking **die**. She died in his _arms_."

"Sylvia, I know what you want to do, but it's murder—"

"—Murder is too _good_ for that fucking monster," Sylvia growled.

"So, help me put him away," Jim begged.

He held her in his arms, trying to get her to move, but Sylvia pushed him away.

"I told you, James. I don't want him behind bars! I want him to fucking rot! He killed my family—he **destroyed** it! And I want nothing more than to see him _tortured_!" Sylvia shouted furiously. "You want to help, back off, and let Oswald do what he needs to do."

"I can't do that!" Jim growled.

"Galavan threatened my existence!" Sylvia bellowed. "He put a gun to my head and tried to kidnap _me,_ James. If Oswald hadn't fucking put a knife in his neck, I'd be in the same fucking situation—maybe worse! You're trying to protect a fucking monster! And if that's still your only goal after I've told you everything I know, then **fuck you**!"

She threw a lamp at him. Jim dodged it.

"Whoa!" Harvey jumped into the office, throwing the door open. "Jimbo—are you still okay in here?"

Jim glanced at his partner before turning to Sylvia whose chest was heaving up and down, her face soaking wet from sweat and tears.

"Yeah," said Jim breathlessly.

"Get anything?"

"No. Nothing. Let's go."

Sylvia watched them go down the stairs and she leaned over the banister, shouting, "YOU'RE PROTECTING A MONSTER, JAMES! A FUCKING MONSTER!"

Jim glanced up at the railing before pushing the Strike Force and Harvey out the door.

**Chapter 37: A Reflection of Love**

Per Oswald's request, she kept Victor informed on her coming and goings whilst outside of the Cobblepot Mansion's perimeter.

"You don't sound like yourself," Victor said over the phone.

"I'm a little riled, but I'm fine."

"What happened?"

"My brother and his GCPD pals came to the club for a raid."

"Are you okay?"

"Physically, yes."

"Did they find anything?"

"Damn, Victor," Sylvia sighed. "Now I feel a little offended. If you think they found anything, we are _clearly_ not operating on the same level of mutual respect."

"You know I like to tweak that sense of humor of yours," Victor said slyly. He let out a cruel chuckle over the phone that made Sylvia roll her eyes.

"I'm coming up to the mansion," She informed.

"We'll be waiting," Victor copied, his tone was back to being business-like.

Sylvia did a double take around herself, making sure she wasn't followed. Seeing nothing to the contrary, she flipped the switch, pulled the welcome mat aside, and descended down the stairs; once she was underground, she flicked the twin's switch, and watched the stairs move back inside the slender concrete wall behind her.

"I never get tired of that," She sighed with a small smile.

Currently, in the room she resided, there was no one. However, she followed the dulcet tones through the tunnel, walking inside. Sensing the oppressing presence of someone new, Gabe, Dagger, Chilly, and a few others that had gathered to partake in the evening's event, readied their weapons, cocked their guns, and aimed it at her.

"False alarm," Gabe told everyone.

"One hell of a welcome," Sylvia greeted, smirking at them. "Hi, Gabriel."

Gabe moved towards her, and he wrapped his arms around her. She looked at him curiously.

"I figured you needed it," He explained; his droopy face transfixed into one of a sympathetic smile.

"Thanks, but I'm fine."

"Well, in our defense, Miss Sylvia—you don't really look like it." Henry's voice spoke from behind Dagger.

When Sylvia heard it, she glared; Dagger quickly moved aside to dodge her temper.

"Henry!" Sylvia scolded. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Freda and Marcy said— _whoa_!" Henry stopped talking once Sylvia grabbed him by the loose collar of his polo and shoved him against the nearest pillar.

"I told you to _stay at the club_ ," Sylvia growled. "Are you fucking deaf!"

"Sylvia, I—"

"I SAID 'ARE YOU DEAF'!"

"N-no…." Henry stammered.

It was admittedly the first time that Sylvia saw him scared of her. Most of the time, he was smirking or playing it cool. Now, he legitimately looked afraid of his boss.

"Well, if volume ain't an issue," She said snidely. "That just makes you a disobedient little shit!"

Dagger and Chilly moved to touch her.

"BACK OFF!" Sylvia ordered, pointing the finger of her free hand at them.

They held up their hands and did as they were told. Gabe and Mr. Bell looked at each other curiously. It wasn't a shock to them that Sylvia would behave this way; both of them had told Henry—advised against it actually—not to come to the mansion because this is exactly how she would react.

She'd lost one of her own—Joshua—to Galavan. She was furious that Henry had disobeyed her orders and had come anyway.

"I knew you were in trouble," Henry quickly stammered out. "I-I knew you were going to need help, so I decided to come and try and _help_!"

Sylvia pushed him further up the pillar, joining her free hand with the other to do so; his feet started to dangle.

Gabe raised his eyebrows in surprise; he had no idea that she was so strong.

"Henry, I told you to stay the hell back at the club—I gave you one goddamn job to do!" Sylvia bellowed. "ONE FUCKING THING! And what did you do—you deliberately disobeyed me, you little _shit_!"

She dropped him and he crumpled against the pillar, hunkering down, and attempting to get away from her.

"Miss Sylvia, please...I just wanted to help." Henry said weakly.

"You wanted to help," Sylvia responded sardonically. "You could have helped by staying where I told you to stay, by doing what I asked you to do. Before I left, I specifically requested that you all save each other—to _protect_ one another, and you fucking left!"

"I thought you'd be happy!" Henry squeaked.

"DO I LOOK FUCKING HAPPY TO YOU!" Sylvia screamed.

"N-no, you d-don't, but Sylvia—"

"Sylvia," Gabe piped. "Give the kid a break—he just came to help out."

"Stay the _fuck_ out of this, Gabriel," Sylvia snapped, her face turning red. "This doesn't concern you."

"He's just trying to help—let the kid help," Dagger offered.

"I've already lost one kid tonight," She said, turning on Dagger and Gabe. "I can't lose anyone else."

Henry slowly stood to his feet.

"Sylvia, I can help in anything. I'm capable—all we want is to prove ourselves and—"

Her eyes flickered with dismay, turning back to him.

"' _We_ '?"

Henry gulped.

Sylvia looked above him and stepped back. She leaned over him and turned up the switch to the other lights; with a clatter, the lights turned on to reveal Marcy, Freda, and Tiffany all hanging back, standing together behind a pillar.

Henry had been the fall-guy, the one who had dared to speak first. But it had been one idea, decided amongst the rest of them.

"Are you fucking _kidding_ me!"

"Can't blame the kids for wanting to help," Dagger offered. "They see you're miserable, you don't tell them nothing, so you can't blame them for coming to help out their boss."

"Do any of you—ANY OF YOU—know what it means to obey fucking orders!"

Gabe raised his hand.

"Put your fucking hand down, Gabe—goddamn it." Sylvia hissed.

"Vee-Vee," began Marcy and Freda.

"Don't 'Vee-Vee' me," Sylvia snapped. " _Not_ now."

"But we just want to help," Marcy said, standing next to Henry. "It's like what Stagger said—"

"—Dagger—" Dagger corrected.

"—Whatever," Marcy dismissed, waving him away. "We knew you were in trouble, Vee-Vee. We just wanted to help!"

Sylvia rubbed her temples as she closed her eyes; she mumbled, "You're all bunch of little children, _aren't_ you?".

She turned to Tiffany, who slowly approached her, ready to receive whatever anger that could be thrown at her.

"We—" Tiffany began, but Sylvia shook her hands violently.

"I _know_ ," Sylvia said irritably. "You 'wanted to help'." (She rubbed the bridge of her nose.) "I get it, you want to help. Much appreciated, but if you all are here, then who the fuck is running the club?"

"Forget about the club," scoffed Marcy. "The club handles itself."

"Yeah," Freda added. "Plus, Chilly's there."

"No," said Sylvia darkly. " _He's_ right here."

She pointed to where Chilly was standing, looking innocent as his name was brought up.

"Oh..." Freda muttered.

"So _not only_ did you all disobey my instructions," She seethed, "you also left the business unattended. So, you know...people can just break down the door and steal whatever the fuck they want."

"Well, Strike Force already did that," Freda reminded.

Marcy nudged her in the ribs, saying, "Shut up! You're not helping."

Sylvia held two fingers to the bridge of her nose, like she was trying to not spontaneously combust.

" **Victor**!"

Her voice echoed through the tunnels. And sure enough, Victor appeared, looking more or less content but curious as he approached her.

"You shrieked?" He said, smirking at her.

"Please," said Sylvia tiredly. "Escort the kids back to the club, would you kindly?"

"Sure."

"We're not going anywhere," Freda argued.

"We're staying right here," said Marcy.

"We want to help," Henry insisted. "And we're going to help, no matter what you say."

Victor raised his eyebrows at Sylvia, waiting for her reaction to the insubordination.

"Do you still want me to escort these children back to the shoe?" Victor asked.

A beat of silence passed, and Oswald entered the room, looking at them all incredulously.

"You _do_ realize we're supposed to be in hiding?" He reminded them coolly. "That means using 'inside' voices, and not trying to alert everyone to our location?"

Sylvia gave him a look: "I can't deal with these kids today. I just can't. Victor—"

"Got it," Victor returned, stepping towards the teenagers.

"Hey, we came here on our own initiative!" Henry snapped, dodging Victor's lurching height. "We want to help—and we're more than willing to die trying."

Freda and Marcy nodded bravely.

Tiffany looked as though she might have started a war just by bringing all these people back to the mansion without her boss' say-so. But she looked at Sylvia just as bravely.

" _You_ all may be willing to sacrifice yourselves," Sylvia told them. "But I'm not. I don't want any of you here or going after Galavan.""

"You wanted a good crew," Henry said harshly. "You _wanted_ people who could take care of each other, so you didn't have to worry about us. Well, we've been doing that. We have literally done everything you've ever asked us to do and the one time when we can actually give something back, you're not going to let us to do it. We've got this! Let us prove ourselves!"

"You are _not_ going to this party," Sylvia ordered. "You are _not_ going to prove yourself **tonight**. I went over this with you before, and I'm honestly surprised that I have to go through this again. You are _not_ going—"

Oswald said lightly, "If they want to help, Pigeon, let them."

"No. I lost Josh," said Sylvia, looking at him. "I can't lose my other kiddos too."

"We're not your kids," Henry reminded. "We're your employees. Josh wasn't your kid either—he was able to go with you, and he wanted to. Sure, he got himself shot, but he would have wanted it to go no other way."

"What the hell is happening right now?" Victor asked Gabe.

Gabe shrugged.

"We're rallying," insisted Marcy. "You have a choice. You can either have us work for you, and have some help getting this Galavan fucker—which I'm sure you want to do, right—or we can be babysat by this guy" (she gave Victor a leery glare) "and do fuck-all."

"I like this kid," Victor chuckled, gesturing to Marcy.

Sylvia looked at them, all of them. She was torn, clearly.

"Help us help you," Freda insisted. "Let us do something for _you_ for a change, Vee-Vee."

Sylvia pursed her lips together for a moment and with _much_ reservation, she said reluctantly, "Fine."

Henry, Freda, and Marcy cheered while Tiffany smiled gratefully. Sylvia glanced at them all and she walked away, rubbing her face. The heels of her boots clicked the damp concrete as she sought out solace in the moment.

After a while, Sylvia heard a second pair of footsteps. A hand touched her shoulder. She turned to see Oswald.

"I'm making a mistake," She uttered softly. "Sending them to the gala with the rest of them. I'm making a huge, and terrible, mistake. They're not ready. They never were. And Josh—"

Oswald lifted his hand to her face, his slender fingers running parallel along her jaw line while his thumb rested over her lips, silencing her. Sylvia looked at him reprovingly.

"They'll prove themselves to you," He reassured. "You just have to place your confidence in them."

"I can't—they're kids."

"Then that begs the question as to why you employed them in the first place."

"Because they needed to belong somewhere. They needed a home. But in the beginning, they were just my employees. When I see them now, all I see are my kids."

Oswald took her hands in his.

"When this is all over," He said gently. "We may have to go over our options as to why we never considered child-bearing."

Sylvia smiled sadly at him, saying, "Ozzie, doing what you're about to do—you may very well die tonight."

"Maybe," He considered aloud. "Then again, there's the chance that I might not. In either scenario, your people will be fine. Gabe will be keeping tabs on them the entire time."

"That won't be necessary. I'll be with them."

Oswald suddenly had a change of tune. He looked at her with much concern and alarm.

"You are _not_ going to—" He began.

"Oh, I most certainly am," Sylvia reassured strongly.

"You aren't serious."

"Do I sound like I'm joking?"

"Sylvia, I forbid you to—"

She smirked at him: "Do you even remember _who_ you're talking to?"

Oswald scowled, "It doesn't surprise me why all your people are insubordinate. Look at their leader."

Sylvia chuckled when she realized her own hypocrisy.

"Don't worry about me," She reassured. "I'll lag behind in the back, keep a far-away distance. Anyway, I'm only going to be shadowing the ground; the others will be going into the building itself. Galavan's eventually going to come out with an escape route; the GCPD can be incompetent, but an escape route is going to be in place to get Galavan out of that mess."

"Pigeon, whether you stand in the front, the middle, or the back, your hair is a dead giveaway."

"It is, isn't it?" Sylvia noted, touching her copper locks.

"I'm going to brief the troops. Please reconsider. At least, _think_ about it."

"I can reconsider and re-think everything you've told me, but you already know when I've made up my mind, there's no going back."

"I'm _very_ aware."

He touched her face again, then brushed his lips against hers. Sylvia kissed him back, smiling at him endearingly.

Oswald approached the rest of the crew, looking at them all, arms crossed.

"No one is to kill Galavan but me. Understand?" Oswald told them.

"Boss, I get what you're feeling," said Gabe sympathetically. "A mother's love—it's the most beautiful, the simplest—"

"GABE!" Oswald snapped.

If Gabe kept it up, he was going to fall apart and he didn't need that to happen just now.

"Cops aren't gonna let you within a hundred feet of Galavan. Let us whack him for you. Please?"

"No," Oswald refused. "He's mine."

He took a deep breath, fixed his suit and said calmly, "Now...let's get dressed. We have a party to attend."

Henry, Freda, Marcy, and Tiffany all helped each other into one of Penguin's expensive suits. It wasn't exactly a one-size-fits-all deal, but by happenstance, all of them were pretty slim and it only required a few stitches here and some inches taken in to make the suits work.

Some of Penguin's men (almost all of them) were tailored and suited. The hair was probably the most difficult part. Marcy was already halfway there; she only needed the other half of her hair spray-painted to look the part.

Within an hour, give or take, anyone who had shown up (minus Mr. Bell, Victor, and Gabe) were dressed the part. It didn't take long to practice Oswald's characteristic limp; Henry seemed to already know it all too well as though he had mimicked Oswald in the past.

Oswald looked at them all, smiling. Despite everything, he was proud as to how well all of this was slowly producing. No one would be able to pick him out of a line-up.

"Where's Sylvia?" asked Henry, looking around and narrowing his eyes to get a more close-up of everyone in the room.

Oswald felt a little relief, hoping that she had reconsidered his words and decided to stay out of the plot. He couldn't risk losing her. Not her.

"I'm here."

Oswald turned to see Sylvia, dressed exactly like him. Her copper locks were hidden under ebony dye. And what's more, she'd chopped off her waist-length hair, all the way up to her neck; the rest of her locks had been tied up with bands and bobby pins, her bangs spiked and plastered with gel and hairspray across her forehead.

In many ways, Oswald was certain he'd been looking at a direct reflection of himself—her bright blue eyes were the only slighted difference...that, and she was a woman.

"You look..." Oswald began.

"Fabulous," She answered, grinning broadly at him. "I know."

"You're seriously going with us?" Henry asked unhappily. "What happened to us proving ourselves to you?"

"Well, my little ducklings, if I can't keep you out of harm's way by locking you in my club," said Sylvia dutifully, "then I'll have to do my part in making sure you live through this massacre. Because that's exactly what it's going to be."

"Sylvia," Oswald said, taking her arm and pulling her to him.

"Oz, you can't talk me out of this."

"I know I can't."

"Are you still going to try?" She asked knowingly. "You'll be wasting your breath. Honestly, you shouldn't really be surprised. We've been together almost two years—seriously, that's almost a fucking lifetime by Gotham standards."

"No, no," Oswald said quickly. "I'm not going to talk you out of it. Odds are, you'd ignore me anyway."

"The odds are high."

"I just…" Oswald started again, but he was at a loss for words.

Perhaps it was seeing the extent Sylvia would go to ensure his success. First, there was becoming the King of Gotham, how well she just rolled with the punches. And now, here she was, doing whatever was necessary to make sure that he got his revenge on Galavan, as well as avenging the mother she never had.

And not to mention the fact that was dressed just like him in a suit and had changed her entire appearance.

It was all a ploy to distract the Strike Force as well as the rest of the GCPD so Oswald could catch Galavan outside the perimeter. Technically, she was sacrificing herself.

For him.

'For better, for worse...for richer, for poorer...in sickness and health, til death do us part', indeed.

"Oswald?" Sylvia spoke his name, becoming more concerned for the fact that he had yet said anything.

He glanced at the team, noticing that they were still fixing each other up. He took her hands in his once more, his mouth open but words unable to come out.

"Ozzie, what is it?"

Oswald smiled at her as he finally spoke: "I love you so fucking much."

Sylvia grinned broadly at his statement: "Look at you, baby. Swearing and not even in the bedroom. I fucking love you too, sweetheart."

He kissed her and she returned it.

"Does this mean we all get guns?" Marcy piped up, looking at everyone.

Oswald raised his eyebrows at Sylvia, who shrugged carelessly.

**Author's Note: Part 3 is coming up :) 


	5. Exchange of Power (Part 3 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of 3 of Third Installment: Exchange of Power. 
> 
> Highlights: Oswald settles into his role as the King of Gotham as he and Sylvia tie the knot; Oswald experiences a new level of submission; Victor and Sylvia go on a contract together; With the wedding underway, Jim and Sylvia's relationship is tested as well as her new marriage when Galavan and his sister make their debut; In his new transformation, Edward Nygma reveals previously hidden feelings towards Sylvia; and Jim and Oswald agree to a pact that will protect Sylvia from being put in Black Gate. 
> 
> Warning: This sequel has minor elements of non-con (mentioned at beginning of applicable chapters), major character death, lots of angst, and oodles of smut (dom/sub context).

**Chapter 38: Shot But Not Killed**

Galavan's party was being thrown, regardless of the threat over his head. The Strike Force was ready and staged with their tasks; Jim and Harvey were inside, watching, listening to the clever speeches. But neither of them could be fooled. Butch might have been lying for all they knew, but Jim heard it from the mouth of his sister.

The new Mayor was dirty.

"Detective Gordon," Galavan greeted, smiling widely at him as he came over to get a picture with one of the many who'd publicly endorsed his campaign.

The reporters ate it up like Thanksgiving turkey, catching a few good shots from all angles. They thanked Galavan for his patience and they went to some other politicians and congressmen who were there to celebrate the victory of their new mayor.

"I heard about the shoot-out today," Galavan said nonchalantly. "Something about one of Penguin's former lieutenants, a Butch Gilzean?"

"Some men ambushed us as we were questioning him," Jim informed. "He escaped."

"Did you get anything out of him before he did?"

Jim noted that odd tone, but he said, "Unfortunately, no."

"Well, that's a pity."

A pity, indeed.

Jim wasn't easily fooled. He caught Harvey's eye, gesturing for him to follow their wonderful new mayor. He nodded, catching the signal, and doing what he did best: tailing.

It was a surprise that Galavan hadn't asked about his sister, really.

"Detective," rang Martinez on the walkie, "I have a large group of men approaching from the main road. I have eyes on the target. It appears to be Cobblepot, sir."

"Hold your fire," Jim ordered into the walkie. "Perimeter units, prepare to engage."

A moment later: "Target has been taken down, sir."

"I told you to hold your fire, Martinez," He scowled.

"It wasn't us, sir. We have an unknown shooter on the roof. Repeat: we have an unknown shooter on the roof."

Jim moved through the room, speaking: "Martinez, is Penguin dead?"

"Negative. It's not him, sir."

"Find the other shooter, and find Penguin—we need him alive!" Jim ordered.

"Detective, all the targets are dressed as Penguin and all of them are heavily armed; positive ID is impossible."

_Damn it._

"Martinez, you are cleared to engage. All units converge on our perimeter _now."_

The windows shattered. All of them. Jumping through the windows were multiple people, all dressed in the same deep purple suits, all holding shot guns and discharging their loaded weapons into the crowd of fair-weather attendees.

Innocent people fell face-down to the floor. Police officers drew their own guns, firing at the tidal wave of suspects. Rounds hit the wooden floor, and littered around the dead bodies.

Jim pulled a few people out of the crossfire, ducking a few close calls himself before finding Galavan, who was slumped against the wall, doing his best to evade the bullets as well. Harvey stood in front, leaning against the pillar, using it as a guard.

"We have to get you out of here," Jim growled, looking at Galavan. "Harvey—"

"Got you covered, partner!"

"Let's go," Jim said, grabbing Galavan's arm and dragging him out.

The walkie rambled out directions: "... _back-entrance._ _Remaining officers, stay inside and clear the lobby_...Confirmed...Primary is en route...Initiating exit plan, using the South Entrance... _Roger that. Detective Gordon is en route to the rear entrance with the Mayor. Need that limo in the back service entrance, stat. C_ opy that."

Jim and Galavan burst out of the door like a bomb was about to go off—and in a matter of speaking, it was.

"GET THE MAYOR OUT OF HERE!" Jim shouted.

The limo driver hopped out of the driver's seat, and opened the back door. Just as he did, shots fired, and the driver was on the ground. Dead.

Jim shoved Galavan down, and aimed his gun at the suspect.

And lo and behold, it was Penguin. Holding a shot gun.

"Hello, Jim," Oswald greeted less than enthusiastically. "Please step aside."

"You know I can't do that," Jim replied carefully.

"You would if you knew what kind of man you were protecting."

"Shoot him, Detective," Galavan breathed.

"Oswald," Jim said firmly. "Listen to me. You have to put the gun down."

Oswald's voice cracked as he spoke, "He killed my mother, Jim."

"I know."

Galavan glanced at Jim incredulously. Genuine shock.

"Detective Gordon," He said dangerously. "I am ordering you to put that man down _now_."

Oswald stepped forward, saying, "He had her murdered in front of me. I held her. Watched her die. Do you know what that's like? It changes a person."

Footsteps approached.

Jim felt a little relief as Harvey rounded behind Oswald, cocking his gun, saying, "I'm sorry about your mother, Penguin. But I'm gonna need you to put the shotgun down on the ground...slowly. Now."

Oswald glanced only a little behind him, noticing that it was Harvey. He inhaled deeply, looking straight at Jim.

"One of us is going to die tonight. I've made my peace with that. I suggest the mayor does as well."

"Don't make us shoot you," Jim warned.

A third gun cocked.

And the sound made Jim and Harvey startle, including Galavan and Oswald. But Sylvia's voice came out clear as day.

"James, if you shoot my husband, I _will_ shoot your partner."

Harvey glanced over his shoulder to see Sylvia—or what sounded like Sylvia—aiming a hand gun straight at his head. Harvey, Galavan, and Jim stared at Oswald's look-alike. She was a splitting image of him.

"Vee?" Jim gasped.

"Yeah, it's me." Sylvia returned.

With her free hand, she ruffled her hair; the bobby pins and rubber bands fell out, prompting her neck-length hair to fall around the top of her shoulders.

"You won't shoot Harvey," Jim said calmly.

"Try me. I've had a _very_ long day," Sylvia said darkly. "Your cops just took out my kiddos" (she gestured her free hand to the house) "And the man you're protecting killed my mother-in-law. So fucking _try me._ "

"Oswald," Jim began. "Please. Don't make us shoot you."

"Shoot me," said Oswald angrily, "And you have no idea what his endgame is! And you should. Because it concerns someone you know! Someone you care about!"

Galavan breathed, "Shoot him."

Sylvia let out a high-pitched scream when Oswald grunted, hitting the ground when a bullet caught him in the shoulder.

"ON THE ROOF!" Harvey bellowed.

Jim and Harvey directed their fire towards the roof of the house. To their bewilderment, Oswald was slithering into the driver's seat of the limousine while Sylvia opened the passenger door, getting in.

He muscled through the pain, starting the car and the limo shot down the highway; Sylvia cringed when the bullets hit the roof and sideview mirrors. She wasn't sure how to feel about Jim shooting after her.

When they were a few minutes down the road, Sylvia noticed Oswald becoming weak. He was losing blood, fast.

"Oz, move aside."

"I can do it—"

"You're bleeding and you don't know where to go," Sylvia snapped. "Stop the fucking car, and climb in the back."

Seeing that she had another plan in mind whereas he had been improvising, Oswald stomped on the break and climbed into the back, grimacing painfully as he teetered himself into the back seat. Sylvia strapped herself into the driver's seat, and gunned the gas pedal.

"Where are we going?" Oswald asked painfully.

"To a safe house."

"We have a safe house?"

"Yes."

"How do we have—"

"While you were accusing me of sleeping with Galavan and betraying you," said Sylvia, looking at him through the rearview mirror, " _I_ was building safe houses."

Oswald stared at her, drifting between lucid fainting and impressive awe.

"All that sneaking around at four in the morning," He realized aloud, looking up at the roof of the car from his back.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me..."

"I honestly don't know," Sylvia said truthfully. "I blame it on self-preservation."

He had no response to that, even though Sylvia was certain he would've had one ready. He was starting to get quiet, and she bit her bottom lip knowing what that meant.

"Stay down," Sylvia ordered.

"No problem," he muttered.

She ducked as she hit the gate; the officers guarding it were all up in an uproar—no doubt an APB was placed on them. She straightened, glancing carefully at the rearview mirror to see the officers pointing their guns and starting to fire at the car; but by the time they'd thought to fire, the car was already halfway down the highway.

"Don't fall asleep, Oswald." Sylvia said, reaching behind to the backseat and patting his leg. "You need to stay awake."

"Considering the fact that I've not slept in days," Oswald responded vaguely, "I doubt that's possible."

"Well, find the fucking will and do it," Sylvia snapped. "Once we get to the safe house, we'll be fine. But I need you stay awake."

Oswald grumbled under his breath. He sat up, hissing. She couldn't imagine the pain he was in—then again, she'd been shot in the neck a year before, but she passed out the moment it happened. Sylvia put the pedal to the metal, shooting down the road like a speed racer. Once she was in decent perimeter, she drove the car into the woods, going as deep into it as vehicular possible.

If the car was off the road, it would be harder to track. Further from the safe house, the better—but for Oswald's sake, it had to be within a reasonable walking distance. He would be weaker, and less compliant than usual. She jumped out of the driver's side and trudged through the vines and foliage, opening the back seat.

"Ozzie, grab my hand."

With the hand of his better arm, he held it out towards her. She took it, and pulled him out. She wrapped this arm over her shoulder and neck; her other arm went around his waist, hooking him to her.

She was strong enough to push a 21-year-old man up a pillar when she was pissed. Sylvia had no doubt that she could string along her husband through the woods for two miles with just her rage alone; the fact that he was hurt made her rage burn that much brighter.

She lugged the two of them through the woods, following her personal markers for two miles. By herself, she could walk two miles in about 30 minutes, and that was at a leisure pace. With Oswald, it had taken her about 40 minutes, and she was sore by the time they reached the trailer.

Vanderhill had been good on his word—the safe house was small, nothing anyone would look twice at, and it would serve its purpose. Sylvia opened the door and Oswald mumbled something; at this point, she couldn't understand him. He was frequently drifting in and out of consciousness. Quickly, she closed and locked the door and laid him down on the couch.

Sylvia said softly, "Talk to me, Oswald. Remember—you can't fall asleep."

Oswald looked up at her irritably.

"That's it," said Sylvia, smirking. "I'd rather you be irate with me than die on me, so deal with me for another hour, okay?"

Per her request, Vanderhill had stocked the trailer with plenty of First Aid supplies, to include splints and a few crutches which were all located in the bathroom.

There was nothing in the refrigerator, but all the non-perishables were in the cabinet.

Sylvia grabbed several items from the bathroom and pulled off her dress jacket, throwing it to the floor and folding her sleeves above her elbows, after undoing the vest she wore and throwing it over the arm of the couch. Oswald watched her, more in loving awe at how quickly she moved—or maybe the time of his reality was all just relative and she was moving at normal speed...he couldn't be sure.

Oswald looked at her with a great deal of confusion when she undressed his upper half, but didn't seem to give a damn. The pain of the tweezers digging into his shoulder didn't nearly affect him—she'd masked his pain with numbing agents from a syringe she'd poked him with only a minute before she began digging.

When she stopped minding him, Oswald looked at her. Confused, again.

"What?" He asked.

"What do you mean 'what'?" Sylvia asked lightly.

"Did you get it?" Oswald asked, licking his lips.

"Yes." Sylvia answered. "I got the bullet out. It wasn't a clean shot, but….it should be okay now. I stitched you up, and you're all bandaged. The bleeding will stop momentarily…but we're going to need more help eventually. We can't stay in this trailer forever."

"Mmm..." Oswald mumbled, looking at her. From the waist up, he was bandaged. His arms were free though.

He felt light-headed, but ironically giddy—despite everything that had happened to him. To _them_.

"What did you stick me with?"

"Morphine," Sylvia answered gently. "You can go to sleep now, Oswald."

"Don't tell me...me what to do," He muttered before he laid his head on her lap and slipped deep into a sound sleep.

**Chapter 39: Little Sister's Loyalty**

Bodies lined the floor. The Morgue would have their work cut out for them.

Jim leaned against the pillar, arms crossed, eyes front. Four bodies were lined up together, and they would be later identified as Tiffany Rubberdale, Freda, Marcy, and Henry.

At that moment, Jim wouldn't be able to pick out from the many bodies that replicated their outfit, but Sylvia's voice echoed in his mind:

" _Your cops just took out my kiddos... And the man you're protecting killed my mother-in-law..._ "

Jim could think of many things he regretted in the past. Protecting Galavan may be one of them. His sister's voice was full of pain and suffering. Not even twenty-four hours ago, Sylvia had told him—spoken from her own mouth—that Galavan had not just kidnapped and killed Gertrud Cobblepot, but also had tried to kidnap his own sister.

And she was so desperate to seek revenge on their new Mayor that she was willing to shoot Harvey Bullock. Sylvia was capable of a lot of bad things; Jim knew this too well. Shooting and possibly killing Harvey was one of the last things Jim thought she would be able to do.

Just as she spoke, her voice was riddled with hatred for Galavan. He knew her though; both he and Sylvia did well to cover their guilt, sadness, and panic with anger. And she was livider that he'd ever seen her.

Despite all of that, what did he do?

He kept protecting Galavan.

He could argue that it was his duty; it was about sacrificing his personal values in order to maintain justice and that sort of thing. It didn't stop Jim from feeling the burden of guilt...he was a good cop tonight, but there could have been no better example of being a shitty brother.

It was something that Sylvia always put on him, and something he would always try to counter. But Jim doubted this time that she was wrong.

They'd lost people—Martinez, included. So, had she.

_Your cops just took out my kiddos…_

"The car smashed through the main check point; guards at the gate said it wasn't Penguin driving," Harvey said, walking towards him. "They gave a good description of Sylvia in Penguin's clothes. She helped him get away...and not to add salt to the wound, but also put a gun to my head. You know what that makes her."

"An accomplice, I know."

Jim kept his arms crossed, glowering ahead at Galavan.

"We lost people."

"Good people." Jim reiterated. "Martinez was one of them."

"Sometimes the good guys have a bad day."

"Vee lost a lot of her people too."

"So, we _all_ had a bad day. It happens. It's not your fault."

"I know." Jim agreed. "It's _his_."

Harvey followed his gaze to the person in question. Theo Galavan was sending praise towards the GCPD for having done a spectacular job, reporting all kinds of facts about his family's grand history and how everything needed to the be forged before it could be made into solid steel.

"Got any way of finding her?" Harvey asked.

"Who?"

"Little Sister. You know Barnes is going to ask you to lure her out."

"She won't come to me," Jim said knowingly.

"You're her brother."

"Am I?"

Harvey cocked his head to the side, confused.

"I had a choice," said Jim, glancing up at the reporters who were fueling Galavan's leadership qualities. "I had a choice to be there for her, but I chose to keep Galavan safe. Penguin may have lied, and Butch may have lied, but Sylvia tells the truth."

"Not all the time, Brother. She's lied in the past."

"She can't lie when she's angry," Jim pointed out. "When she's pissed off, she's as honest as a nun."

"So, Galavan's dirty. We can prove it to Barnes...somehow...but Sylvia is gonna be looked at as a criminal. She helped Penguin escape, _drove_ him to safety."

"She's his wife. I wouldn't expect anything less from her."

"And she's your sister—Jim, Captain Barnes is going to make you look for her. And when we find her, she'll have to be treated like any other criminal we put away. Odds are, she's gonna go to Black Gate unless we cut her some type of deal. And the only way she's going to find some lenience is if she gives up Penguin."

Jim shook his head: "No deal, then."

"You don't think she'd give him up?" Harvey asked skeptically.

"She's hard to live with," Jim admitted. "And she's hard to talk to when you have to eat your words, and she can be a real hard ass when it comes to giving out free pity, but if there's anything that keeps Sylvia worth having around is that she is loyal. She's proven that to me several times...and I can tell you right now, Harvey, there is no way she will give up Penguin. She'll go to Black Gate before she does."

"We're in deep dog doo-doo for this one, aren't we?"

"We sure are."

As the speeches finished, and the news media disbanded, Jim told Harvey to go home. Most of the action was done for the day, and Harvey was ready to take the plunge in a neck-full of whiskey and gin.

"Detective Gordon," Galavan greeted with a wide smile.

"Mr. Mayor," Jim returned with less enthusiasm.

"You catch my speech?"

"I think I've heard enough speeches," Jim responded dryly.

"I had such high hopes for you," Galavan said, shaking his head.

Jim felt immediately attacked.

"I thought you were prepared to make the hard choices," Galavan stated disappointedly, "to do whatever it takes to get rid of Gotham's monsters."

"I am," Jim challenged. "I've just decided that I'm gonna start with you."

"Dangerous words when addressing the man who now controls this entire city."

"Desperate times."

"They _are_ indeed."

**Chapter 40: A Friend In Need Is A Friend Indeed**

Oswald lied in bed, under the covers, asleep.

Sylvia stood in the bedroom doorway, watching him. She could take care of him so long as the supplies lasted, but what she had told him was true: they could not stay in the trailer forever. She kept him drugged with the morphine she tapped into syringes, kept the wound clean with the sterilization antibiotics and peroxide, but she had less than a day's worth.

She'd either have to venture out of hiding and rob a pharmacy or get some help.

" _Pigeon..."_

His voice pulled her out of her deep reverie. Sylvia stepped forward, looking at him imploringly, only to realize that he wasn't _asking_ for her, per se. Instead, he was dreaming about her.

Oswald was dressed in a robe found in the closet; his torso and right injured arm were covered in gauze. Sylvia sat on the edge of the bed, her body merely a silhouette under his closed eyelids. Her hand took a gentle hold of his left, the pad of her thumb stroking the top of his knuckles.

While he could dream within his drug-induced sleep, Sylvia remained riddled with pain.

Gertrud. Tiffany. Henry. Marcy. Josh. Freda.

All of them had died—at Galavan's expense. Her hatred for the man became that much deeper; the glower in her eyes became that much darker. What she wanted was to see Galavan suffer to the point where he, too, would be begging for his life.

And then, there was Jim.

Soulful, good-cop, Detective James Gordon.

 _Despite_ knowing the trepidation that Galavan had caused and despite knowing what she had lost, her brother still had insisted on following through with protecting the Mayor of Gotham. Sylvia had to commend his efforts of sticking to the good-cop persona, but it pissed her off something awful.

"Pigeon..."

"I'm here, baby." Sylvia cooed, rubbing Oswald's hand with hers.

He murmured more in his sleep, but his words weren't distinguishable. He tried to turn on his side where he slept the best, but unfortunately that was his injured half.

"No, baby," Sylvia said softly. "Stay on your back."

"Mmm..." Oswald pouted—still asleep.

He was in limbo, between being half-awake and half-asleep. He could hear her voice, know she was talking to him, but whether he was completely aware of his surroundings was still up for debate.

Jim could be a great brother when he wanted to be. But how often would she become a victim to his good-cop ideals. He should know by now, surely, that it was hard to be a hero in Gotham. No heroes. That type of mindset was not permitted to exist in Gotham; it simply couldn't.

"Mmm..." Oswald sighed, smiling a little. He turned on his left, his uninjured side, facing her.

Sylvia glanced at him curiously when his left hand held hers more firmly. He opened his eyes, looking up at her.

"Hey, Ozzie."

"Hi" Oswald answered, smiling at her.

"Morphine still kicking?" Sylvia asked.

He nodded.

"Feel any pain?"

"None."

"Good." Sylvia said, patting his hand.

Oswald looked at her curiously, lifting his hand to her hair. It was cut to her neck, but he seemed to notice that it was back to its natural copper.

"Pretty..." Oswald hummed, smiling at her.

"Yes, the dye wore off."

"So pretty."

"Thank you, sweetheart. Go back to sleep."

"Okay..." He mumbled, and he closed his eyes.

He was out like a light.

Sylvia interlaced her hand through his hair, gently massaging his head then his neck. Oswald let out a peaceful sigh, one that she rarely heard. In his drug-induced state, he was probably the most peaceful, compliant patient known to mankind.

"I need help," Sylvia said quietly, rubbing his neck with the pads of her index finger and thumb. "We can't stay in this trailer forever, you know. I can't call Jim...I'm pretty much a felon at this point."

Then the idea occurred to her.

Sylvia stood and walked into the living room. She searched through her pant suit, the one she'd worn to the gala, and rummaged her fingers inside each pocket before she found her cell phone. She'd taken it off GPS-mode, not wanting the FBI or who-the-fuck-ever else was tracking the signals to find her.

She looked through her contacts.

Everyone she had in her phone were either dead or connected to the police or being interrogated by the GCPD at this point. Gabe, Victor—none of them would work.

" _Fuck_ me." Sylvia growled.

She put a dent in the wooden coffee table.

"What the fuck am I to do…." She groaned. "This whole fucking situation is like a goddamn math equation, and god knows I can't do the fucking math. The only person that could probably configure a fucking answer out of thin air is Edward Nyg..."

She widened her eyes.

"Nygma." Sylvia repeated, looking at her phone.

She searched her contacts.

About this time, it was night fall. Her phone read 9 PM... maybe it was an hour's difference, but otherwise, it was nightfall. She doubted Ed was at work during this time.

She dialed and then waited.

_Ring, ring…._

"Hello?" Ed answered.

"Ed! Ed, where are you? Are you at work?"

"No. Liv, it's nine o'clock, why are you calling me at this hour?"

"Are you busy?"

There was a pause as he said slowly, "I mean…. yes, but not really..."

"Is this a riddle?" Sylvia questioned irritably. "Because I don't have the patience for a riddle right now."

"You sound troubled."

"I'm more than that—it's a long story. But you're not at work?"

"No."

"Is Jim there with you?"

Another pause: "No, of course not. Why would he be?"

"I just needed to know," said Sylvia cryptically.

"Liv, are you okay?"

"No, I'm not. I'm very fucking far from being okay. Edward, I need your help. Some serious, _serious_ help. I'm in a world of shit right now, and I don't have anyone else I can turn to."

"Oh sure, no... give me one minute, and I'll—what do you need from me?"

"I need you to come to me." Sylvia said desperately; her panic resurfaced at the possible flicker of assistance.

"Well, it might take me a little bit."

"Why, where are you?"

"You won't believe it," said Ed humorously. "I'm in the woods."

Sylvia paused saying, "Why the fuck are you in the woods?"

"I'm taking care of...something."

"Ed... what part of the woods are you in right now?"

"Why are you asking?"

"Just fucking tell me, goddamn it."

"The woods just off of Highway 202," Ed answered quickly.

Sylvia stared at her phone.

"How far are you from the highway?"

"About a mile—Sylvia, what—"

"Ed, you are _literally_ a mile away from me if you're where I think you are," She said firmly, getting to her feet. She glanced out the window. "Do you see a trailer near you?"

"Of course not. I chose this place because it was secluded…."

"Why do you need a secluded forest?"

Ed was silent for a second.

Sylvia smirked saying, "Ed…. What are you trying to bury something in the woods right now?"

"I... No, I'm not."

"You're lying."

"It's a friend…."

"Edwarrrrd…. I know you're lying."

"Well, it's half-true. She is a friend," said Ed truthfully. "So, you want me to walk into the woods to find a trailer? Do you have any idea how macabre that sounds?"

"Don't tell me what I think. I've had a long day. Look, just start from the highway, work your way down. And when you see a trailer, let me know."

"Okay, but I should really finish what I've started."

"Edward, this kind of important."

"Okay, fine...give me about ten minutes."

"Fine."

"Liv."

"What?"

"Just so we're clear. Did you _want_ Jim to be with me when I come by the trailer or—"

"No, Ed. Just bring your happy self." Sylvia clarified.

"Fine by me. I'll be there in ten."

"Fine by me."

They hung up.

Sylvia waited, standing in the doorway of the bedroom to watch Oswald continue sleeping. She got rid of the suit and pants that she'd masked herself in for the gala; instead, she now wore black leggings and a dark, navy blue T-shirt.

When she heard a timid knock on the door, Sylvia put on her black flats and peeked through the window. Seeing Edward, she opened the door, grabbed his arm, and pulled him inside.

Ed barely had time to straighten his glasses before she closed the door with a sharp thud and locked it.

"What's happened?" He asked quickly. He glanced at the thick bandages and the dried blood on the couch before turning to her with alarm: "Are you hurt?"

" _I'm_ not."

"Well, just so you know, I _have_ dabbled in a little minor—however basic—nursing."

"I know you have." Sylvia stated, taking his arm, and moving him forward.

"So why did you ask me to come when...ohhhhh dear." Ed stopped in his tracks when he saw who lied in the bed. "Is that Mr. Penguin?"

"Yes. That's Penguin. _He_ needs your help."

"Well, do you have any—"

"No. I did, but most of the supplies are down to scraps. I can't keep him here anymore, Ed."

Ed looked Oswald over, taking into consideration his blood loss, injuries, and the like.

"The prognosis looks better than what I could hope, though. A few days of rest, some change of bandages, and he should be tip-top," Ed reported with a small smile. "Did you get the bullet out?"

"What the fuck am I, Ed? A simpleton?" Sylvia questioned indignantly. " _Yes._ I got the bullet out. It wasn't easy."

"Did he put up a fight?"

"No, I sedated him."

"He let you do that?"

"I'm his wife," said Sylvia pointedly. "He lets me do whatever I want to him."

"A little TMI, but alrighty-then," Ed accepted the fact gracefully. "The GCPD's been talking about you. How have _you_ been?"

"Galavan's a fucking sociopathic murderer and my husband is shot in the shoulder. My people were shot dead by my brother's fantastical 'Strike Force', and I'm on the run," said Sylvia cynically. "How well do you think I've been?"

"Okay," said Ed calmly. "I asked a stupid question."

"Obviously."

"We can move him to my place."

"Do you get much tread with the police at your place?" Sylvia said protectively. "The last thing I need is a fire war because I brought you into this."

"No one comes to my apartment anymore," Ed chuckled.

"You said that...weird. Why did you say that weird?" Sylvia asked. "And why did you just chuckle like that?"

Ed cleared his throat saying, "Okay, so I can bring my car around and we'll just heave him into the back seat on three—no problem."

Sylvia eyed him suspiciously, but Ed wasn't about to give more details than needed. He talked more about different healing agents, and the medieval ways that old-time healers used to make people better; herbal remedies, juice—it was a great deal of information to take in, but Sylvia listened to it because…. well, Ed was helping her out when she needed it most; at the least, she could do was listen to his factoids.

Sylvia and Ed carried Oswald into the apartment—Ed carried his arms, avoiding moving the shoulder as much as possible while Sylvia held his legs. After counting to 'three', they put Oswald on the bed in perfect synchronization. Still doped up on meds, Oswald fell right to sleep.

Ed pulled back the blankets with minimal effort, and placed it over him. Sylvia took over, tucking him in.

"Why do you do that?" Ed asked, pointing to the tucked in sides; Oswald reminded him of a swaddled baby at this point.

"That's how his mother used to tuck him in."

"Ah. Okay, then."

After a minute passed where they awkwardly watched Oswald sleep in silence, Ed turned to Sylvia.

"Would you care for something to drink?"

"Please."

"Coffee or something stronger."

"What do you think?" Sylvia questioned.

"I have a bottle of gin in the cabinet."

"That'll work."

"Gin, it is." Ed said, grinning widely.

He pulled two cups from the top shelf and placed both exactly beside each other, not a single centimeter off. Sylvia watched him closely, noticing that he hadn't stammered or stuttered or paused awkwardly at any point during their conversation. He didn't appear nervous or uncertain of himself.

That, in itself, was odd.

"Edward."

"Hmm?"

"Who were you burying in the woods?" Sylvia asked.

Ed looked at her curiously.

Nonchalantly, he asked, "How do you know it was a 'whom' and not a 'what'."

"It was a friend, you said."

"Could've been a dog."

"It wasn't a dog," said Sylvia knowingly.

Ed cleared his throat, looking away from her. But it wasn't out of embarrassment or guilt. Instead, she noticed it was more out of modesty. Like he wasn't trying to brag.

"Who was it?" Sylvia asked more firmly. "Come on, Ed. You saw the secret I was hiding. How about a little give-back? I could really use a bit of juicy gossip after the couple days I've had."

Ed nodded, understanding her side of it.

"Well, if you _must_ know. It _was_ a friend. I wasn't fibbing about that. But it was a close friend."

"Kristen?" Sylvia guessed.

Ed smirked: "You're a hard character to stump."

"So, you did it, huh? You killed your girlfriend."

"Well, in her defense, she really didn't deserve it."

"You told her about Dougherty, didn't you?"

"Again—it's hard to stump you."

"I know you, Edward Nygma." Sylvia said softly. "And I know how much you like to boast about your intelligence. But I have to ask."

"Ask away, please."

"How'd you kill her?"

"I strangled her."

"Ah."

"It was an accident, of course."

"Accidental death _does_ fall under the category of 'killing'." Sylvia reminded. "So, no exceptions there."

Ed looked at Sylvia for a long time. Longer than what might have been deemed acceptable or appropriate. It was like a light bulb had gone off in his head, a puzzle piece that had been evading his small jigsaw puzzle had finally been located and put into its rightful place.

"Sylvia."

"Yes?"

"How is it that you can accept what I've done?" Ed asked.

"Look what I'm married to," Sylvia returned, gesturing behind her to Oswald. "Ed, you're the closest thing to a friend that I have."

"What about your people?"

"Well, for starters, my people are dead now. But they were under my employ long before they became my friend."

"That Tiffany girl?"

"I killed her fiancé," said Sylvia. "Her verbally, physically abusive fiancé. After I killed him, I had some of Oswald's employees throw his dead body in the river. Tiffany was never my friend—not completely. She owed me a debt, and in doing so, she was endeared to me."

Ed interlaced his hands together, watching Sylvia speak of the dead as though they were discussing dinner reservations. It didn't escape her either.

"We have a lot in common, you and me," Ed noticed.

"I see you. I've seen what you truly are, Edward. Before you killed Dougherty, and before you killed Kristen."

"You knew before I said anything."

"I did."

"Is that because you know me so well?"

"Not really, Ed. I don't know much about you, to be honest. I know you like riddles—but so does everyone else. You love science, you like anatomy, and you have an odd, if not dire, obsession with order. Aside from killing abusive assholes, we don't have much in common," Sylvia commented. "But I know what it's like to hide your true self, and I know the kind of crap you have to put up with—those officers at the GCPD hardly respect you."

Ed nodded, agreeing to everything she said.

"Do you think…." Ed began.

"Do I think what?"

"If I asked Mr. Penguin, do you think he'd guide me on this sort of new journey I'm on?"

"Maybe."

"Or could you?"

"I'm not the mentoring type. However, if you want to learn how to make intestine origami, I'm more than open for business."

"Uh…."

"Just kidding. My plate is kind of full at the moment."

"Speaking of which, are you hungry?" Ed asked interestedly. "I like to cook, especially for other people."

"Sure. I can eat."

"Excellent." Ed said, grinning widely. "Should we wake him up for dinner?" He gestured to Oswald.

"I think he's fine for now." Sylvia reassured.

**Chapter 41: Dinner With Mr Riddles**

Prior to Sylvia using the shower, Ed brought out a light blue night dress from the closet, neatly folded on the toilet seat cover, along with a robe of the same color, placed on the hook behind the bathroom door.

It was upon Ed's insistence that she freshen up, and she didn't have to be told twice. The smell of stale air and sewer-like grime from the trailer had convinced her and she was just praying he wouldn't mind ("No, no, _please_ , I insist. ").

Walking out in said clothes and robe, she looked at the garments Ed had offered to her out of hospitality; she sat at the small dining table across from him in front of a large bay window. He had prepared a light meal for them to eat, and even set aside another plate in any case Oswald woke up hungry.

"Whose clothes are these?" Sylvia asked, flapping her wrists so the sleeves moved up her elbows where she could roll them.

"Ms. Kringle's."

"You gave me clothes that once belonged to a dead person?" She questioned, raising her eyebrows.

"Well, they're the only things here that would probably fit you, given our height difference," He said practically. "And, if I am not being too bold, I figured you wouldn't mind, owing to your past."

"Right on both accounts," Sylvia agreed, shrugging indifferently. "Either way…Thank you, Mr. Nygma."

"You are very welcome, Mrs. Penguin."

They shared a laugh before Ed offered her another glass of gin.

The 'glass' was no ordinary glass; instead, it was a measuring cup for pancake batter. His was very much the same. As he topped the glass off to its 2-cup marker, he placed the bottle between the two of them, adjacent to their plates of steak and mashed spuds. The clinking of silverware on dining plates and the small slurps that followed were, at first, the only sounds in the room for the longest time.

Sylvia side-glanced Oswald in bed. He was nestled deep under the heavy comforters. Sometimes, he would turn, whimper in pain in his sleep, and then roll reluctantly on his back once more. He'd woken up a few times; seeing Sylvia, however, he'd assumed he was in the same trailer in the woods, and there was no cause for alarm. He'd fallen back to sleep when she asked.

Ed followed her gaze to the bed, and said logically, "He'll be fine here."

She quickly looked at him, startled by his comment.

"I know."

After a moment, she wiped her mouth with a napkin and then took a long drink from her glass. She looked at Ed, who returned her simple gaze with a curious one.

"Edward."

"Hmm?"

"Do you like working in Forensics?"

"For the most part. More or less, eighty-five percent of the time, I like it."

"And what's the other fifteen percent, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I don't mind if you ask me anything." Ed reassured.

He, too, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said honestly, "The fifteen percent is actually split"—He gesticulated as such by miming cutting something in half—"between several factors."

"And they are?"

"The people I work with," Ed answered. "On the one side, there is the imbecilic team of police officers; they only care about the first and second paycheck…people like Harvey Bullock give me a headache. On the other side, there's Dr. Thompkins. _Lee_. I don't mind her—she can be a little nosy from time to time, but no more than the rest of them. She nearly caught me when I found Kristen's body..."

"What do you mean 'found'?" Sylvia asked. "You're the one that killed her. So, you would already know where she is. There wouldn't be any need for discovery."

"You would think so," Ed replied, smirking.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, without getting in the specifics, I inadvertently had brought Ms. Kringle's body to the morgue, and then—here's where it gets funny, you'll like this—I inexplicably mapped out a plethora of riddles where the _other_ me, per se, would find her. That me found Ms. Kringle's body in the morgue where the other me had put her. Lee almost caught me."

"Which you?"

"Caught _me_."

"Well, that clears it up, thanks."

Ed looked at her as though it was the simplest thing to understand. And while she didn't look at him as if he was crazy, she did appear puzzled.

"Is _this_ a riddle?" She asked after a moment of silence had passed.

"I can see why you're looking at me, confused," Ed reasoned. "It sounds _crazy_ , but that's how it happened."

"So, the other you...is not Ed?"

"Not in the same sense you understand."

"You're telling me there's more than just you in your head?"

Ed shrugged, "I guess that's one way of putting it."

Sylvia interlaced her fingers together, looking at him closely: "So, am I talking to the Ed that killed Kristen or the one that found her body where the other you put her for the other you to discover?"

"Both."

"Which are you claiming to be? The one that killed Kristen?"

"Not really," He admitted.

"Then who am I talking to if I'm not talking to Edward Nygma?"

"It's that person that I'm still figuring out," Ed admitted shamelessly. "I know I want to become him—"

"—The one that killed Kristen, you mean."

"Precisely. I just don't know how to _be_ him."

She was looking at him with a raised eyebrow. "You're still you, aren't you? You still have the same memories; you remember our friendship."

"I do," He responded, sighing deeply. He said darkly, "I don't have MPD, if that's what you're asking."

"I wasn't. And it's no longer called 'Multiple Personality Disorder'. They don't call it that anymore. It's 'Dissociative Identity Disorder' now."

"I didn't know that."

Sylvia smirked saying, "See, dear. You learn something every day."

"That, I do," said Ed, nodding. "However—back to the point—I'm not crazy."

"No one ever said that, and even if you did have such a mental illness, you would still not be crazy. But, it's not uncommon for people to have D.I.D and be aware of their own different personalities. Sometimes, multiple personas can co-exist all within a single catacomb. Most of the personas lie dormant while a dominant one takes control. It's quite common." Sylvia explained.

Ed stared at her; his lips parted in impressive awe.

"See, Mr. Riddles," Sylvia teased. "You're not the only person who's smart around here."

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to."

Ed opened his mouth to speak, but for once, he was left speechless. He took a long drink of his gin, grimaced as the dry alcohol torqued his jaw and throat, then looked at her simply.

"Let's say I did have this split identity," Ed stated hypothetically. "For amusement purposes, shall we?"

She nodded, gesturing for him to continue with his theory: "Sure. Fine. Let's go with that. Let's say the nervous, socially awkward person that I first met in the GCPD is _the_ Edward Nygma. If that was him, who are _you_?"

Ed smiled but it didn't reach his eyes.

"I'm not sure," He said, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the hooked handle of the measuring cup he used as a glass. "I've been uncertain...going down this path. I know I want to, but I don't quite know where to start. Does that make sense?"

"Incredible amount of sense. But I don't think it's because you 'don't know where to start'. I think it's that you just don't know where to go from here. You've already started though, you know. Killing Dougherty, and Kristen—two marvelous steps, and everything starts with baby steps."

Ed gazed at her intently, like he was deep in thought and not completely there. He leaned forward, folding his arms over the table.

"Where did _you_ start?"

Sylvia chuckled, "I told you I'm not the mentoring type."

"But you can be an excellent advisor in the meantime," said Ed interestedly. "Besides, now that you know what I am, and I've known what you are...I think it's time we get to know each other on a more intimate level."

"Out of context, Edward, that sounds _really_ suggestive."

"I apologize for that," He said, although he didn't sound apologetic at all.

Sylvia leaned back in her seat.

"Alright then. I technically killed something when I was fifteen."

"Really, now?"

"Yes, _really_ now." Sylvia imitated, smirking at him.

"Who was your first?"

"Our family dog."

Ed gave her a disappointed look.

"Don't give me that scowl," said Sylvia harshly. "This dog was like family. And it was an accident, mind you."

"What happened?"

"He was hungry. So, being the person that I was, I gave him food. Or at least, what I thought was food. It wasn't until our dad brought him to the veterinarian that I found out what I really gave him was rat poison; I thought it was _sugar_ that I was putting on doughnuts."

"That's unfortunate," said Ed sympathetically.

"Yeah. Jim cried for _days_ ," Sylvia uttered, glancing over at the bed to Oswald, who was sound asleep. She looked back at Ed, adding, "I felt bad for a couple weeks."

"What happened after?"

"Dad got us a new dog, same exact one."

"You don't sound happy about that."

"I wasn't. And I'm still not. You don't just _replace_ your dog with an exact replica. It's not a fucking _goldfish_ for crying out loud," said Sylvia darkly, glaring at Ed, although he wasn't the target of her animosity.

"What did you do?" Ed asked eagerly.

"Nothing to the dog," Sylvia admitted. "I wanted to, though. After the new dog came, it was like our old dog never existed. Dad was happy; Jim stopped crying…they even gave Bernie's old toys to the new mutt, like he was exactly the same one that we'd lost."

Ed chuckled, "You named your dog 'Bernie'?"

"He was a St. Bernard, Edward. Don't poke fun," Sylvia responded, but she allowed herself a small chuckle. "In my defense, _Jim_ named him. I wanted to call him Cole. Like C-O-L-E but with the impartial suggestion of C-O-A-L."

Ed waited for the explanation, which shortly arrived.

"He was mostly black," said Sylvia, teasing the green beans with the spokes of her fork.

"How come _you_ didn't get to name the dog, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Dad liked Jim more."

Ed paused, saying, "James Gordon was the favorite?"

"I can't believe you sound so surprised," said Sylvia, her voice had taken on a jealous tone. "He's the golden boy, the goody-goody-two-shoes—twinkle toes. He was a senior in high school, he was earning fairly good grades, and had all his ducks mostly in a row; he aspired to become a foot soldier in the Army…. win all these medals." She threw her hand in the air, muttering, "It made him one cheeky bastard."

Ed furrowed his eyebrows.

"What about your mother?"

"Mom was gone. When I was nine; Jim was ten, she randomly disappeared. Dad never told us what happened to her. Jim's under the impression she passed away."

"What do you think?"

"I think she ran off, found herself a hot piece of ass, and decided to tour France. I'd like to think she fell in love with a rich French guy, and every day, she has a baguette for breakfast," Sylvia answered seriously.

Ed stared at her, unsure what to say next.

"I don't know what happened to our mother. Dad said he was going to tell us when we were older, but after Jim graduated the police academy, they were on the way home before the car crash. Jim survived, but Dad died."

"And he never left any note or anything to say what happened to her?" asked Ed sincerely.

"I don't know if he did. We were so devastated and shocked by the news that we didn't bother looking into it any further."

"Sylvia."

"Yes?"

"What makes you keep in contact with Detective Gordon?" Ed asked curiously.

"He's my brother."

"I know that," said Ed calmly. "But there's clearly a sibling rivalry between the two of you. He's this new penny, bright and shiny police officer, working and trying to keep the bad guys at bay. Fair marks in education programs, hasn't ever done a bad thing—"

"As according to _whom_?" Sylvia rounded icily. "He's done _plenty_ of bad things. He's not the shiny penny he makes Gotham believe he is."

"As _Gotham_ sees him," Ed clarified, "you two are more opposite than night and day. And clearly, between the two of you—at least with you—there's a certain animosity."

"What's your point?"

Ed sighed, "Why do you stay?"

"Like I said. He's my brother. He's a fucking pain in my asshole, but he's my brother, none the less. We have a love-hate relationship; my criminal lifestyle hasn't helped it any. Regularly, he has to constantly choose between being a cop and being my brother. You've seen how many times he chooses the latter."

Ed leaned back in his seat: "I think he's ungrateful, if I am being honest."

Sylvia gave him a look.

"Am I wrong?" Ed questioned.

"No, no. You're right, of course," said Sylvia, sighing deeply. "I wish you weren't though."

"I personally like that I'm always right."

"I'm going to find a needle to pop that balloon-sized ego of yours," Sylvia warned, but she was smiling when she said it.

Ed grinned back at her.

"If Edward Nygma was the man that I knew before you started killing people," said Sylvia curiously, "I'm kind of happy that you're a murderer now. Not that I didn't mind the old you, don't get me wrong. You're just more confident—women like confidence."

"Do they?"

"They do."

"Do _you_?"

Sylvia took a drink from her glass, licking her lips and making the same grimacing expression due to the alcohol torqueing her jaw before she looked up at him, surprised by his question. So specific in nature.

"I do, yes," said Sylvia lightly.

Ed took another drink from his glass.

"Ed."

"Yes?"

"Did you really love Kristen?"

"Of course, I did. She was the love of my life."

"Even when she didn't accept this side of you?" Sylvia replied, gesticulating to his general person.

"Even then."

"How come?"

Ed stopped for a moment, then looked at her: "I suppose that when it comes down to it, I just couldn't help myself."

Sylvia nodded: "That's how I feel about my brother."

"Even if he consistently lets you down?" Ed said quietly, if not darkly, "You'd still love him?"

"Pretty much. He'll fuck up, mess up, and blame shit he's done on other people. And he will leave me hanging when I need him most, but there are moments when I've needed him, and he's come through for me. I depend on him and I don't. It's really complicated," Sylvia admitted softly. "He's a police officer and I hate him for it. Love him for it too. It's pretty convoluted now that I think about it."

"Would you kill him?" Ed murmured.

"No."

"That's interesting. From what you've told me, he's tried killing _you_ —shooting at the car you're driving to get away from the police and Galavan."

"Well, I also threatened to kill his partner; I think we're even."

Both of them took another drink from their glasses. Ed looked invigorated by the conversation, and he set his glass down sharply, smiling widely at her.

He said, "Let's do one more hypothetical."

"Alright. Fire away."

"Let's say," said Ed slowly, "that we were not friends."

"This is turning out to be a _really_ tragic hypothetical."

"That's kind of you to say. However, for amusement purposes, let me continue."

"Sure," said Sylvia, although she'd risen her eyebrows at his assertive behavior. "As you prefer."

He was watching her with such an intense gaze that Sylvia couldn't help but feel the heat rise to her face.

"Let's say we were never friends," Ed continued. "You didn't know me. I never knew you. And why not take it a step further—let's say that you were not married to anyone—"

"Edward," Sylvia began. "This hypothetical is getting a little too personal for my taste."

"Let me finish," Ed said cautiously.

"Fine." Sylvia uttered, gesturing to him.

"Moving on with the facts that I have just provided: Would you have ever noticed me?"

"Noticed you?" Sylvia questioned. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play coy, Liv. You _know_ what I mean."

Sylvia laughed nervously, and she crossed her arms on the table, saying, "You're right. I _do_ know what you mean, but I can't very well answer your question."

"You can't?" Ed responded calmly. "Or you don't want to, because you know whatever answer you provided would be dishonest, at best."

"That," said Sylvia, pointing to him. "That is _exactly_ why I can't answer. Or, as you prefer, why I 'won't'. The hypothetical in itself is inappropriate—Ed, questions like that can either elevate or destroy a friendship."

"And you think it would destroy it?" He said knowingly.

"On a contrary," She answered, surprisingly. "I think it would elevate it. More than I care or want to admit. On principle, I wouldn't answer it because I _am_ married. However…you've been so hospitable with my concerns and have thus far taken care of my husband" (She indicated the man in his bed) "I'll answer your hypothetical out of generosity sake, as a favor to you."

Ed nodded, smiling at her eagerly.

"Yes. My answer is 'yes'. If the facts were as you have described, I would have looked at you. I'd have looked at you, _seen_ you—you wouldn't have had to kill people to get my attention."

"You're not lying?" Ed questioned, trying to discern her honesty with that of the opposite.

"I'm not lying."

"You're not...making fun of me, are you?"

"No. I'm not making fun. Kristen saw you _only_ when you were confident. Not all women are like that."

"You're not?"

"I saw Oswald," said Sylvia pointedly. "When he and I were working for Fish, he was nervous—he wasn't assertive, or combative. Nowhere near the same person he is today. But it's amazing what you, men, do when you want something. You'll find the courage, the means, the motive, and carry out your plans, regardless of nerves or other afflictions. As long as it's something you want—you'll take what you think you deserve."

Ed ran his tongue over his teeth, lips closed in concentration as he gazed at Sylvia from across the table. She took a long sip of the gin before she continued.

"And generally, women love confidence. They'll eat it up," said Sylvia; she was subconsciously running her hand over the rim of her glass as she added, "But there's something about a man who keeps his confidence under lock and key. It just takes a certain special someone to unlock what the other person has been hiding underneath. To see just what truly lies beneath the mask. That's not the hard part. Not really. It is letting the other person trust that you'll accept them, no matter what mask they choose to wear."

Ed shifted his jaw, the briefest flash of jealousy heating his collar, seeing what loyal flock Oswald Cobblepot had graced himself with. A loyal soldier that Jim Gordon couldn't truly recognize, something people tended to overlook. If everyone had a Sylvia Gordon, no one would ever go searching for any other allies.

"You love him, don't you?" Ed said quietly. "Mr. Penguin."

"With every fiber of my being," Sylvia returned. "Sometimes, I feel like I love him more than I love myself."

"You speak passionately," Ed said, a tone of admiration in his voice, "when you talk about love. But I must know, if you don't mind telling me...Penguin has killed people, tortured people. The GCPD would call him a disgrace of a human being. That doesn't deter you?"

"Love is acceptance," Sylvia returned, her smile reached her eyes. "One must be able to accept the person at their worst, as well as when they're at their best. You can't love just the qualities you like, it's not grocery shopping. I love Oswald when he's pissed off or when he's happy."

Ed sighed.

"We may," She shuddered from the dryness, "have to dilute this stuff with some grape juice or something. It's _really_ dry."

"I was thinking the same thing. What's your preference?"

"Preference, I have none."

Ed stood to his feet, walked to the refrigerator, and pulled out a gallon of sweet iced tea. She watched him fill their glasses with equal amounts and then place it back in the refrigerator. After that, he sat down, looking at Sylvia apologetically.

"I hope you'll forgive me if I passed some sort of boundary."

"Nope, I'm good. But I have a follow-up question."

"Go ahead."

"How long have you been fancying me, Ed?"

"For quite some time."

"Even when you were with Kristen?"

Ed chuckled, "I loved Ms. Kringle. She was beautiful, feisty, and intelligent as the day was young, but...she didn't understand this part of me, this new part of my life that I've decided to explore. I'm grateful she's opened my eyes to it, but it's a shame we didn't get to venture it together."

A moment passed.

"I never noticed that you liked me," Sylvia commented.

"I never intended for you to find out."

"So why tell me now?"

"I suppose I was more curious about the hypothetical than I care to admit. And I needed to know the answer."

A few minutes of silence passed. It wasn't entirely awkward, but there was a certain shift in the dynamic.

Ed grinned in spite of himself, saying, "I hope this doesn't ruin our friendship."

Ed lifted his glass, taking a drink.

"Mm. Honestly, between you and me," said Sylvia lightly, "I'd put your pining to good use. If Oswald was into it, I'd have you both under the covers and between my legs."

Ed coughed on his drink, spluttering the tea and gin mixture over his plate while Sylvia covered her mouth as she suppressed a loud laugh.

**Chapter 42: A Temperamental Couple**

It was early morning.

Sylvia and Ed were speaking in low tones when Oswald woke up. Sylvia sat on the counter, reminiscing the good old days, and telling Ed all the stories that happened while she was working for Oswald (and while Oswald had been working under Falcone). She'd just finished the story about how Oswald had escaped being crushed alive in a Sedan after Maroni found out his 'true allegiance' when Oswald sat up in bed, looking at the two with uncertainty.

Ed was the first to notice the Penguin's rousing state, and when he looked in the direction of the man in question, Sylvia turned her head, noticing too.

"What's going on?" Oswald questioned, and he grimaced with pain when the wound in his shoulder became agitated from even the slightest movement. "Where am I?"

Ed glanced at Sylvia, wondering if she was going to answer him. Instead, she gestured to him, encouraging him to respond to Oswald; After all, it was _his_ home they'd imposed.

"You're in my apartment," Ed answered dutifully. "I—"

"You're not a cop?" Oswald assumed.

"No," Ed answered, laughter followed. "I'm not a police officer, heavens no. I work in Forensics."

Oswald looked at himself, noticing he was wearing a robe, not his suit. Gesticulating so, he touched the fabric: "Where are my clothes?"

"I threw them away. They smelled."

Oswald began to move as though he was getting off the bed; Ed quickly (but gingerly) placed the water he'd proffered to him on the nightstand beside the bed and took his arm.

"Whoa...Sir, I'm afraid you can't leave—"

Oswald became combative and threatened Ed: "I swear, if you sedate me again, I will—"

"Sir," Ed spoke more firmly. "You are a wanted man. You can try and run, but...chances are you'll only get about three blocks from here. I'm afraid you'll be here until you've recovered."

Oswald glanced past him, a temper tantrum just bubbling under the surface. Seeing that Sylvia was not in a panic, nor did she seem as though she was held here against her will, he reluctantly (if not grumpily) pushed Ed away from him and sat back against the headboard.

"Now," said Ed, smiling. "Drink up. Dehydration is common after prolonged outdoor exposure."

Oswald pushed the glass away from him, glaring at Ed. Resigned, he placed the glass on the nightstand in any case Oswald wanted it back. Chances are, he wouldn't. But optimism.

"What do you want from me?" He demanded.

"Fate is an ambiguous thing. Don't you think, Liv?"

At the sound of the nickname, Oswald glanced suspiciously between the two of them, debating the levity of their friendship.

"I'd have to agree." Sylvia noted.

She didn't look at either of them, in favor of pursuing the gallon of iced tea to pour herself another glass as well as adding a gin tonic to the mix.

Ed continued, "Recently I've been going through a certain kind of change. What change you ask—"

"—I didn't—"

"—I've started murdering people," Ed blurted.

This stopped Oswald in his tracks, looking at the man with a more disarmed expression.

After the pause, Ed said happily, "Wow, that is still so thrilling to say."

"It gets old after a while," Sylvia said from the kitchenette side of the small studio apartment. She sipped through a blue-striped straw, saying from the corner of her mouth, "Almost boring."

Ed and Oswald glanced at her indicatively before Oswald questioned, "How many people?"

"Three, in total."

Oswald tittered. Compared to himself, Ed's game was lacking.

"Two of them, I didn't care about. But one of them was my girlfriend, Ms. Kringle. She was the love of my life."

"If you're planning on killing me, could you get on with it? At this point, it'd be a welcome relief," Oswald replied wearily.

Ed looked affronted before he quickly sat on the edge of his own bed saying to Oswald, "No, no, no. Mr. Penguin, I have no ill intentions towards you."

"If he did," called Sylvia, "I'd have gutted him by now, believe me."

Ed cleared his throat, very aware and having forgotten that Sylvia was a killer herself. And standing behind him, somewhere in his apartment.

"Then what _are_ your intentions," Oswald demanded, eying him closely.

"Sylvia…?" Ed called, looking at her curiously.

"Don't stop now, Ed. You're doing great," Sylvia said, sitting on the piano, waving behind her encouragingly.

Oswald glanced again between the two of them, still trying to figure out just exactly what kind of friendship they shared.

"I need advice. These murders changed me. And like the butterfly, I have come to realize that I cannot become the caterpillar once again," Ed said bravely. "And I know you are one of the most notorious killers. I brought you in part…Well, Sylvia called me asking for my help...and I was kind of hoping you could guide me on this new path."

"Listen, friend..." Oswald began.

"Ed."

"Whatever," He said dismissively as he crawled out of bed.

Sylvia watched him as he staggered towards the window, looking out.

"He's not changing his mind," Ed muttered as he stood beside her.

"Well, he's depressed," Sylvia reminded under her breath.

"My empire is in ruins," Oswald said sadly. "I'm a wanted man with no friends…."

"Excluding me, of course," Sylvia uttered towards Ed, sucking the tea through the straw with a roll of her eyes.

"…And my mother, the very person I've sworn to protect, is dead because of my weakness," Oswald continued (whether or not he heard her was up for debate). "So..." He turned sharply, sending Ed a challenging look. "Wanted man or not, I'm leaving."

He took one step, and then hit the floor with a thud, passing the hell out.

"Oh…!" Sylvia started towards him, bending down to touch him. "Oswald!"

"Don't worry, it's his blood pressure," Ed said lightly, although he took into consideration how quickly Sylvia had rushed to Oswald's side. "We have to get him back in bed."

"Sure." Sylvia said, nodding her head.

She placed her drink on the table. As she took Oswald's knees, Ed gingerly wrapped his arms around Oswald's torso before they hoisted him up and none too easily walked towards the bed and laid him down.

Sylvia looked at him, bringing a hand to her mouth so she nervously bit her nail.

"Are you sure it's just his blood pressure?"

"I am," Ed said confidently. "He's lost a lot of blood and hasn't really walked much since getting out of bed for the first time."

"That's not really helping me."

"In short: He's fine. Just a minor case of hypotension. Once he starts drinking water and eating, he'll be right as rain." Ed said, gently patting Sylvia's back.

"I guess you're right."

"I _know_ I'm right."

"Remember that needle?" Sylvia said lowly. She touched his forehead with her index finger, and whispered, "Pop. There goes your balloon head."

Ed sighed, "How much gin did you put in that tea?"

"Just a little." Sylvia answered, smiling widely. "I'm more of a vodka kinda gal, but I gotta say: this gin-and-tea thing is like the best fucking thing ever. It's really kicking my ass."

"You're inebriated."

"I'm living la vida loca, baby," Sylvia said, smirking. "And you should be so lucky."

"Maybe you should lie down as well."

"The hell I am," Sylvia retorted, only to stumble forward and stub her toe on one of the legs of the wooden chairs. She let out a slew of curses before muttering, "Okay…. maybe you're right."

She lied next to Oswald and cuddled against him. Ed watched her and draped a blanket over the couple before returning to his chair to complete the most recent crossword of the Gotham Gazette.

Now sober, Sylvia sat at the dining table. Even as Ed offered her a second plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, she declined it. Her eyes took on a glossy sheen as her thoughts pulled her back to what was her past, and all the things leading up to the present. Her and Oswald's declination to Galavan's first proffered idea of cleaning Gotham, and then the blackmail that had led them to their current situation.

The entire time she'd been here, Jim was calling her phone. Whether that was because his captain was persuading him to lure her out of hiding because she was an accomplice to the attempted murder on Galavan or perhaps Jim was just worried about her well-being, Sylvia wasn't sure. So, she didn't pick up the phone.

It wasn't until earlier that morning when she woke up to a voicemail on her phone, which was now sitting in the middle of the table, becoming a beacon to Sylvia's deep reverie.

Ed noticed the expression on her face slowly depressing to that of concern and even remorse. Sensing the depth of her own state due to the tragic and unfair passing of her mother-in-law, Ed scooted his chair so he could sit beside her.

"You're in deep thought this morning," Ed cared to note aloud.

"Am I?" Sylvia said distractedly.

"I'd say so."

She looked away from the phone, to him: "I'm considering turning myself in."

This made Ed stand saying, "You're a wanted woman, Sylvia. You're not going to step one foot in the police department before they cuff you!"

"Don't think I know that? It's circumstantial data at this point, Edward. The only people that know I was there are Harvey, Jim, Galavan, and Oswald. For all the media vultures know, I barely threatened Galavan's life."

"It doesn't matter—Captain Barnes put an APB on you, Mr. Penguin, and the car—"

"I trashed the car."

"But you're still on the missing persons list. Sylvia, listen to reason."

"I've never been more reasonable in my entire life," Sylvia argued, turning to Ed sharply. "I'm _not_ someone who buckles down and waits to be found. I am not the type to hide. I thank you for your hospitality; you've been a good friend, but I _cannot_ sit here. And there's this."

She handed Ed the phone.

"What about it?"

"God, just listen to the fucking voicemail. Please?"

Ed sighed, shaking his head but he did as she asked.

It was Jim's voice: " _Vee, I know you did what you thought was right. Honestly, if I was in your position, I'd probably have done the same thing. In my eyes, you've done nothing wrong. You protected family…. that’s something I haven't done in a long, long time. I protected Galavan, but you have to understand my position…. but if it makes any difference, I was wrong. I need you to come home though, Vee. I don't know if my word will sway Captain Barnes, but I know Harvey has no hard feelings for what happened, and neither do I. I love you, Vee._ "

And the voicemail ended.

"Have you considered the fact that this may just be his way of pulling you out of hiding," Ed said slowly, holding the phone indicatively towards her.

"He sounds sincere to me. I nearly fucking passed out when I heard it the first time."

"You've listened to it more than once?"

"I had to. To make sure I wasn't delirious."

"Liv, what you're thinking of doing isn't rational."

"You don't know a damn thing about me, Edward, if you think you can persuade me to change my mind. Jim can be a real tool, but he's not about to lie and say he misses me when he doesn't. He's not trying to pull me out of hiding; he just wants me to be safe."

"You are safe here. With me."

"Jim doesn't know I am here."

"His idea of 'safe' is you being locked in a cage," Ed pointed out.

Sylvia frowned, looking at him: "You better think _really_ hard about the next words that come out of your mouth about my brother because you're _really_ close to getting my foot in your mouth."

Ed held up his hands slowly, as a small surrender.

"I'm not trying to offend."

"Well, you're not trying hard enough."

Ed smiled at her wasp-like tone before he said delicately, "You said it yourself. How many times has Gordon been more of a cop than your brother?"

Her face darkened: "You think Jim is really trying to put me behind bars?"

"I think it's not his ulterior motive, but that may be one of the reasons he made this call," said Ed, pointing to the phone now sitting on the table. "And here you are, once more...wanting to end the feud, make up…. become the good sister again."

"I _am_ a good sister! And you're fucking rude to imply otherwise."

"I wasn't implying that." Ed said quickly, keeping his hands up in surrender. Cautious. "Look..." He scooted closer to her and she eyed him dangerously. "You and I haven't known each other long, but we _know_ each other."

"I have been a great sister to Jim. Many times. I've saved his ass a few times, even. But there is _no way_ that he would have called me, just to lure me out and slam me in a cage. Maybe Barnes originally put him up to it, but he may very well have a plan to get me out of the situation I'm in. If that's the case, I can be free. And if _that_ is what his intention is, I can very well aim to clear Oswald's name, so **he** doesn't have to hide either."

Ed put his tongue inside his cheek, his mind working in overdrive. He put a hand on Sylvia's shoulder gently.

"The odds of that following are extremely slim."

"But the chance is still there. And if there's a chance I can put Galavan behind bars, I'm taking it. If I can't kill him, then I'll take the silver medal. I don't care."

"Galavan _is_ in jail. He's being held in confinement for kidnapping Aubrey James," Ed informed.

Sylvia gave him a look saying, "Even better. Then I can add to the case, add Gertrud's death to the mix, and make sure he fucking stays there."

"Sylvia—"

She stood, so Ed did too.

"You're not talking me out of it."

"But, hear me out."

Sylvia looked at him, challenging him.

"Listen to me." Ed urged. "There's a chance that Gordon's word will not save you."

"It has saved me in the past."

"And you think it will save you once more?" Ed rationalized.

"It's Galavan's word against mine. It's a criminal's word against mine."

"You're a criminal too."

"But I'm an honest criminal."

"That won't matter to a man like Barnes."

"It won't have to," Sylvia stated.

"Sylvia—"

She started towards the door. Ed kept her hand in his, holding it more firmly so she had to stop in place, lest her arm be ripped out of its socket.

"What?" she responded loudly.

Oswald stirred in his sleep.

Ed glanced at him then let go of Sylvia's hand, realizing he was keeping her against her own will. And that was not something he had intended to do. He held out his hands to her though, hoping to tame the fire before it completely spurred out of control; he had no idea just how temperamental Sylvia was, until now.

"Stay. If not for your own sake, then for Mr. Penguin's. If he realizes you've gone, he may not stay either."

"And if I go and get his name cleared, then I will have been vindicated." Sylvia reasoned, gesturing to her husband. "I told you, Ed. I am not a person who can duck down and wait for the storm to blow over."

"Rather, you'd prefer to walk straight into the eye of the tornado and hope it doesn't crush you to death?" Ed replied sardonically.

"I'm about _this_ close to punching you in the face."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you did."

Sylvia put her hands on her hips.

"It's not just about me, Ed. Jim doesn't make those types of phone calls unless he thinks he's in danger."

"So, if he's in danger, you're going to go straight to him and end up getting yourself in trouble too?" Ed said incredulously. "That doesn't exactly follow any type of logic known to man."

"Well, luckily for me, I'm a fucking female." Sylvia replied, smirking. "Now, be a dear, give me my phone, so I can find my brother. Odds are, he's in a world of hurt and he's making the phone call like he's about to die."

Ed hesitated. Only for a few seconds before he grabbed her cell phone from the table and walked it over to her. Before she could take it, he pulled it back. She gave him a hateful glare before he offered it to her.

"I'm grateful for your hospitality and everything you've done for my husband and me," said Sylvia sweetly, looking at him. "However, never let your crush on me get in the way of your own self-preservation. Because if you had argued with me one more time, I would have punched you in your ball sack."

With that said, she wrapped her arm around him and then left shortly after. Ed watched her leave, looking then at the bed where Oswald was still asleep.

How Oswald managed to temper the hurricane that dwelled in Sylvia was yet another thing he wanted to understand, but with her, it seemed better to learn with practice than from theory.

**Chapter 43: Sylvia's Modus Operandi**

It wasn't hard to figure out where Jim was. Sylvia only had to call one person to figure it out.

"Harvey," He answered the phone like clockwork.

"It's me," She said, walking through the alleys.

She was moving through the darkest ones, holding a switchblade in her hand, the blade already out to show the other low life, two-bit criminals that she wasn't the damsel they needed to mess with tonight.

It also sounded like Harvey had gotten himself something to eat, since she could hear chips crunching just against the phone.

"Little Sister?" Harvey gasped.

"Yeah."

"How you been?"

"I've had better days."

"Ha! You're not lying."

"Where's Jim?"

Harvey chuckled, "Jimbo gave you a call, huh? Yeah, he said he would."

"Are you fucking with me right now?" Sylvia hissed.

"Nah, just getting my fair share of payback for when you put a gun to my head, but don't worry. All of that is just water under the bridge, Little Sister." Harvey said sincerely. "I know why you did it—can't say I blame you."

"Aw, that's sweet. So, where's Jim?"

"He and the good ol' captain went to Galavan's Penthouse."

"Why?"

"To get more goods on Galavan, of course—he's in jail, awaiting trial, that sort of thing." Harvey answered, chomping on what might have been a chili dog.

"All right. Thanks, Harvey."

"You're not going there, are you?"

"Jim left a message on my phone. Kind of have no choice at this point."

"You know the moment Barnes sees you, you're under arrest?" said Harvey knowingly.

"Yeah, I'm tracking that. I'll talk to you later."

She hung up. And then she headed towards Galavan's Penthouse.

Getting there was the easiest part. Remaining invisible was where things got a little murky.

Outside of the penthouse suite was what looked to be a montage of police cars, fire trucks, the works. Sylvia noticed that most of the officers were sitting quiet, waiting for further directions. Or perhaps, as her humor darkened, they were mannequins, having been whacked earlier on. And that's why Jim was calling her—as a last resort for back-up.

It wouldn't have been the first time he did that—she and Jim had taken down Sionis when his cop friends hadn't come through for him. Criminal or not, Sylvia was reliable.

She called Jim, taking the risk. Hopefully, only he would answer—no one else.

When he did, Sylvia let out a sigh of relief.

"This is Detective Gordon."

"It's me," Sylvia responded just as she did with Harvey.

"Vee?"

"Yeah. I'm downstairs. Coming up."

"Don't!"

"Why?" Sylvia asked, looking around to make sure there were no threats.

There weren't any. At least, none she could see.

"There are people out to get me. Assassins."

"Someone is _always_ out to get you, Jimmy—that's kind of like your job," said Sylvia callously.

She slowly snuck around the police cars; dead or not, the officers weren't going to spot her. Sylvia ducked under a low hanging beam then slid into the side door of the penthouse suite, making her way up the stairs. She had an odd De Ja Vu from where she'd been led up to the floor by Tabitha Galavan before she and Oswald had declined his offer of deconstructing Gotham to make way for a 'brighter' future.

"Do _not_ come up," Jim hissed.

Was he trying to hide the fact that he was on the phone with her? Only one thing could be certain was that Captain Barnes was with him, trying to listen in.

"Someone tried to kill you. And your cop buddies are just sitting like ducks in a pond down here. Seems pretty fucking familiar. Wanna tell me what happened?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying to me."

"I'm not."

"I can hear it in your voice. Where's Captain Barnes?"

"How do you know he's with me?"

"Harvey told me," said Sylvia truthfully. "You and Barnes are looking for more evidence to pin on Galavan. By the way, thanks for telling me he was in jail—that would have really helped me sleep for the past couple of nights."

"Vee…."

"What?"

Sylvia was halfway up the staircase before a slender youthful man, dressed up in ninja-like garb, holding a machete, stepped forward, pointing it at her.

"Ah," she muttered on the phone. "Now, I see what you mean by 'assassins."

"Why?"

"There's one in front of me right now."

"Vee, get the hell out of here! They're not playing!"

"Well, neither am I!" Sylvia snapped.

The ninja stepped forward, slinging his machete over his head, to the side, and did some fancy twirling. She reached behind her, pulled out her handgun, and then shot the man in the head. He fell over the banister; he and his machete clattered to the ground.

Having dropped the phone, Sylvia now squatted and placed it against her ear, "You were saying?"

She opened the double doors, noticing that the lights had been extinguished. And the door itself seemed to have been broken down, half-ass exploded by a bomb. She cautiously opened it, aiming her gun ahead of her. The moment she stepped inside, two guns cocked, and aimed at her, in turn.

It was Captain Barnes and Jim Gordon who sat on the tile, ducked out of view at first until they peered out from behind the turned over table to see who it was that arrived to shoot at them next. She saw Jim on the phone, having been speaking to her (as she suspected) in front of Barnes.

They both hung up simultaneously, and Sylvia nonchalantly closed the door, pushing a bookcase to barricade it. As she approached, Barnes still held his gun towards her.

"You're a suspect. You get on your knees..."

"You can arrest me, Captain," said Sylvia coolly. "Or, you can use me as an extra man—Holy shit, what the fuck happened to your leg?"

She holstered her weapon, and gestured to the busted artery in his thigh, which spurted blood.

"He was stabbed with a knife," Jim answered, sheathing his own weapon. "Vee, I told you not to come."

"If you didn't want me to come, you'd have never left a voicemail. Especially one so sweet and endearing as the one you left me."

Barnes glared at her: "You're under arrest for the—"

"Save it, Cap'n." Sylvia returned politely. "You're injured, and outnumbered." She gesticulated behind her. "You should thank me actually. I just took down one hell of a ninja assassin that had a machete. He did some pretty fancy moves back there."

"What'd you do to him?" Barnes questioned.

"Shot him in the head."

"You killed him?"

"We'll never know," She answered truthfully, shrugging. "He fell down four flights of stairs. I didn't bother to check for a pulse, but I'm pretty sure _that's_ what killed him. And are you going to arrest the stairs? I doubt you are, Captain Barnes. So, chill out."

Barnes looked ready to spontaneously combust, but Jim looked happy enough to see her. Sylvia glanced around, noticing the dead bodies sitting around them, cold as ice.

"You've had some fun up here, haven't you?" She said slyly, nudging one of the dead culprits with the toe of her flats. "So, have you figured out why they're all trying to kill you?"

"We don't know."

"When's your ambulance coming?" She asked.

"We don't know," Jim repeated, wincing.

"Your back-up?"

"We don't know that either."

"Do you know _anything_?"

"I know," said Barnes coldly, "that you're a wanted woman. And if you have any nerve or figuring in self-preservation, you'll stop talking. Use the right to remain silent."

"I'll do nothing of the sort. I've done nothing wrong."

"You put a gun to Harvey's head." Barnes stated.

"Harvey says otherwise."

"He told me."

"Well, maybe you should talk to your detective again. He seems to think that I was just joking—we have an odd sense of humor, you know."

"We have witnesses at the gates, saying that _you_ were driving Penguin out of the area where Galavan was attacked," Barnes argued.

"Did they say I was wearing Penguin's clothes?"

"Yes."

"So were fifty other culprits," said Sylvia smartly.

"She has a point, sir," Jim offered, glancing at his sister with a discreet helpful smile.

"Don't even," Barnes threatened, pointing at him. "You have a conflict of interest, son. Your word won't collaborate with hers."

"He's a witness to the defense," said Sylvia. " _My_ defense. And you're more than welcome to check the cameras. But you see. _I'm_ redheaded."

"You could have dyed your hair."

"Where's the box or the can?" Sylvia mused, smirking at Barnes.

"This is fucking ridiculous," The captain said, grimacing with pain.

"You're telling me. I'm not much of a lawyer, but I'd say that all your 'evidence' is circumstantial, and that'd be grounds for a case dismissal. If you think I'm wrong, consult Harvey Dent," said Sylvia practically.

She looked at Jim, who was grinning at her the entire time: "You look terrible."

"Thanks." Jim quipped, rolling his eyes at her, but he was still smiling. At the end of the day, he just loved seeing his little sister come through for him—yet again.

"So, _he's_ bleeding out," She observed, looking at Barnes apathetically. "You, James, are here because…. you wanted to get the goods on Galavan."

"Yeah."

Sylvia looked at Barnes, saying, "If you want the perp to stay in jail, Captain, I'd offer my testimony. But I doubt you'd want to hear it."

"You're still an offender in my eyes."

"Mm, that may be so. And it's not untrue. I'm an offender. I've offended a _lot_ of people. I don't have any idea what I did to _you_ that makes you act so rudely towards me though."

Barnes blinked and blurted, "You're the Penguin's fucking wife."

"And I piss sitting down. These are facts we know," Sylvia retorted, flourishing her gun towards the ceiling dismissively. "Are you going to disparage me because of my marriage—which is _legal_ by the way. I figured I should throw that one out since you're so fucking gay for legalities."

Barnes' face was turning red, and he glared at Jim insistently. However, Jim didn't even try to suppress his grin.

"What's so funny?" Barnes interrogated.

"Sir, with all due respect…." Jim began, but Sylvia interrupted.

"You know, I never understood that phrase," She said flippantly. "The whole idea behind it is to pay due respect to the person you're talking to, but the content that comes out is usually disrespectful and highly offensive. It's like the phrase 'no offense, but...'. Like, that whole phrase is paradoxical. Anything that comes after the 'no offense' is also very offensive and oftentimes confrontational in nature."

"She's a talker," Barnes muttered painfully.

"Yep." Jim uttered.

"I hear Aubrey James is going to testify," said Sylvia, looking at both of them skeptically. "Think he's really going to do that?"

"He'll be on the stand, taking the oath to tell the truth," said Barnes. "If he wants Galavan in jail as badly as the rest of us—"

"—He doesn't," Sylvia interjected. "He wants to be left alone. Him and his mistress...or his wife...or whatever. I hear he's married and has a mistress, but I guess the whole story about him having a second lover was all bogus so Galavan could keep him tied up and tortured here."

"So, he says," Barnes agreed. "And we're going to make sure he gets there. And there's nothing you can do about it."

"Oh please," said Sylvia, rolling her eyes. "I'm not going to corrupt your legal system from sentencing Galavan to prison. Please, _do._ If I can't see him dead, I'd rather see him rot."

"So, you're admitting to trying to kill Galavan?" Barnes questioned.

"No. I'm admitting nothing. Because I've done nothing," said Sylvia coolly. "And if you want to pick my brain, I figure you've got about an hour to do so before you bleed out to death, Captain. You know. With all due respect."

Jim chuckled, "Vee, you're lucky the Captain is down."

"I'm lucky?" Sylvia returned, crossing her arms. "He's the lucky one. I don't fight invalids."

Barnes growled, but he chose to stay on the ground, holding his thigh: "You're insufferable. You know that?"

"That's funny being on the recipient side of it," She giggled. "That's normally what I'm telling Jim. Ain't that right, Slim-Jim?"

Jim nodded, smirking at her. She grinned back at him.

"What the hell is so funny?" Barnes growled.

"Nothing. Just you know. Inside jokes. You're not the laughable type." Sylvia stated. "So, you wouldn't understand."

There was movement downstairs. Sylvia cocked her gun.

"Don't you fire that weapon!" Barnes demanded.

"Sorry," Sylvia retorted, grinning sarcastically at him. "I'm not one of yours—I don't take orders from _you_."

Jim stood protectively in front of Barnes, who remained seated; he kept a gun in his hand the entire time, uncertain whether to aim it at the front doors or at Sylvia who he could hardly trust with a butter knife, never the less a loaded weapon.

"What's your plan of attack if they come up here?" Sylvia asked, glancing sideways at Jim.

"Fire until they stop moving," Jim answered.

"For once, we agree on something."

They remained standing side-by-side, still aiming their guns at the entrance. Sylvia casually glanced behind her to make sure there were no peepers coming up. She looked at Jim endearingly, smiling a little since she felt closer to him; and he felt the same way too. Even if it meant bonding over the matter of survival.

"Did Barnes persuade you to call me?" Sylvia asked quietly, glancing at Jim. "Or did you call me on your own initiative?"

"Why do you even have to ask that?"

"Why do you think? You're a cop one day, a brother the next. Sometimes, I wonder why you just can't be both."

"You make it hard to be both."

"I don't make anything hard," Sylvia hissed. " _He_ does." She gestured her eyes in Barnes' direction. "You and I were mostly fine in the old days."

"When _Loeb_ was Commissioner, you mean."

"Well, we had a common enemy. Instead, you and your fucking Strike Force are constantly laying into my husband and me. It's not exactly something I like to partake on a weekly basis."

"Your hands are dirty, Vee."

"Yours aren't clean either."

"I'm doing my job."

"Oh, fuck me, not this old argument again," Sylvia returned.

The movement continued. Then it came up the stairs.

Jim lowered his gun immediately when a fellow officer called from behind the barricaded door.

"Detective Gordon, it's me!" said a female's voice.

"It's Parks," Barnes said; he shook his hand, saying, "Push the bookcase back."

"Who the fuck is Parks?" Sylvia demanded, still keeping her gun raised.

When Jim moved the barricade from the door, Officer Parks walked inside; she held her gun firmly, drawing it suddenly from her holster belt when she saw Sylvia standing opposite of her. Jim grabbed Parks' hand that held the gun.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" Jim breathed. "No, no…. Parks, she's with us."

"The hell she is..." Barnes muttered.

"For now," Jim corrected, looking easily at Parks. " _She is_."

Parks glanced at Sylvia cautiously. The officer looked friendly enough, but Sylvia gave Jim a second glance.

"Put it down, Vee. Parks is good."

Sylvia frowned, lowering her weapon. She held out her hand to the officer, who looked at Jim and Barnes for confirmation that it was legally and ethically okay to shake the hand of a woman like Sylvia Cobblepot. When Barnes scowled but Jim nodded, Parks took Sylvia's hand and shook it warily.

"I'm Sylvia."

"Officer Parks."

Jim grinned a little, that was until his phone rang. He answered it. From the way it sounded, it was as though the back-up had arrived and the ambulance was sure to come. However, there was a lot of gunfire from where Sylvia was standing and then silence as the voice spoke directly to Jim.

He looked less than thrilled, and the entire time, he looked at Sylvia as he spoke.

"Who is this?" Jim snarled. "…. Is that name supposed to mean something to me? … I won't…. In fact, I'm coming down."

"What the hell is going on down there?" Barnes demanded.

"We got another hitman," He informed, glancing between Parks, Barnes, and Sylvia. "He's just taken out all of our back-up."

"Convenience," Sylvia sighed. She smiled at Parks sarcastically, "You're a rookie, right?"

She nodded.

"Get used to _that_ happening a lot in Gotham," said Sylvia disparagingly.

"You shut your mouth," Barnes snapped. "I am _tired_ of your cynicism."

"Well, it's realistic," Sylvia piped. She glanced at Parks, and muttered, "But seriously. Get used to it."

"I'm going down to end this," Jim interjected before his sister and the captain could get into another squabble.

Barnes turned from Sylvia to tell Jim indignantly, "He just killed four cops! You're not going anywhere on your own!"

"He's not," Sylvia returned, stepping beside her brother. "He'll have me."

"And _you're_ a wanted suspect!" Barnes rounded, pointing at her. "You stay right where I can see you. And James, you're not going anywhere alone."

"He's right," said Parks, nodding. "I'm coming with you."

"No," Jim said. "You're staying with him. Make sure he doesn't bleed out."

Barnes growled, "I just said you're not going down there solo. We'll make them come to us."

"We stay here," Jim debated, "We're sitting ducks. He's after me, Boss."

Barnes had a lot to juggle. In one aspect, he'd lose his prize man. In another, he would be protecting his rookie, Parks, and keeping her out of sight and out of harm's way, himself included. He looked at Jim for what felt like minutes before he resigned.

"Go," He sighed.

Jim nodded and he started walking.

"You," Barnes ordered, pointing to Sylvia. "Go with him."

"You just said I was a suspect," She recanted.

"Consider this your get-out-of-jail-free card. Make sure my boy stays alive," Barnes said strictly. "And I'll grant you a pardon. And this is the only time I'll make the exception."

"Fine," said Sylvia. She followed Jim, stopping at the entrance as she turned around.

"But I'm only doing this because I _wanted_ to go with my brother in the first place. I only take orders from one man, and you, Captain Barnes, are definitely _not_ him." Sylvia verbalized.

Jim grabbed Sylvia's arm and pulled her into the elevator with him as Barnes curled his upper lip, already regretting his lapse in law-abiding.

Standing in the elevator with her, Jim sighed deeply.

"So..." He uttered quietly. "Was this your plan all along? Come save me, gain Barnes' trust, and grant yourself total immunity?"

"It was the idea, but not how I would have planned it. But it was a very small possibility. Ultimately, I came to protect my big brother."

"How did you know I was in trouble?"

"You have an odd way of showing affection. You only show it when you're knocking on death's door. It's amazing to me how much affection you've shown Lee in the past," said Sylvia, shrugging. "I shouldn't be surprised though. She's your lover. I'm only your sister that comes to save your honorable ass all the time, but what do I know. I'm sure all the criminals do that for their siblings."

"I'm sensing a great deal of sarcasm."

"Good, because I'm laying it on pretty thick."

Sylvia and Jim glanced at one another. Then they laughed.

"What's your plan for getting this guy?" She asked, pulling her gun out and counting the rounds that remained. Aside from the bullet in the ninja's head, she still had a full magazine.

"The usual."

"So, you plan on using minimum force?"

"Yeah."

"That's a terrible plan, as _usual_ ," sighed Sylvia.

"You got a jail free card; you might want to start taking my advice."

"If I did that, I'd be bored all the time."

"It's my way that saved Aubrey James and put Galavan behind bars."

"No, it's not," Sylvia called him out on it. "I talked to Harvey on my way here, caught up—he said you went with Barbara to a fucking church. Before that, you kissed her in the interrogation room, _in front_ of Lee."

"Technically, not illegal."

"Well, it may not be illegal, but it's certainly questionable. Ethics are more important than law, James. I hope you and Lee have had the time to talk that one through."

"Not exactly."

"Well, once we kill this assassin that has just taken out four of your cops, I bet that will be a wonderful conversation to look forward to," said Sylvia coolly. "You want to do the honors, or me? Personally, I've not had a good killing since…. see, I can't even remember when I last killed a person. That's how long it has been."

"You're trying to be funny, but I'm just proud of you for saying so."

"I'm not. I've been bored for a long fucking while."

"And we're not killing this guy."

"Go fucking figure."

"He has to remain alive."

"So, I can maim him, then."

Jim thought for a moment, glancing at Sylvia before he shrugged saying, "You know what. Why not. Have at it."

The elevator door opened, and Jim caught her shoulder, pulling her back as he emphasized, "But _don't_ kill him. We need to find out who he's working for and who put the hit on me."

"Fine by me. A man can still testify without his legs, right?"

"Technically speaking, yes."

"Then I'll be cutting off some legs."

"You're insufferable."

"So, you and your captain keep telling me."

Sylvia and Jim got out of the elevator and they both edged towards the front of the building.

"You hold him," She muttered. "And I'll punch him."

"You'll punch him to death."

"Well, I could stab him if that would make you feel better, but I figured giving shiners would be more practical to your plan."

"Still sensing that sarcasm."

Sylvia and Jim glanced at each other, noticing the fallen officers either lying over the hood of the cars or on the wet concrete. Outside, it was dark.

Only the moonlight and dim streetlamps to offer any type of vision. It was out of the blue that a man arrived with black hair and streak of light pink, came throwing a chain over his head and around his body like a human wrecking ball.

The chain caught Sylvia first, and it struck her down too quickly, knocking the breath out of her lungs. Jim avoided the next throw, glaring at the very assassin that aimed to kill him.

"I see you brought a friend!" He giggled maniacally. "I'll bet she'll be tasty too."

Jim was already aggravated. The threat of this man eating his sister just fueled his rage further.

Sylvia stumbled to her feet, holding her face from where the chained whip had struck her. But this cannibal was after Jim, not her; so, she remained invisible. The two of them were tangled in long punches and side-steps before she stood and tripped him; he landed on his back. Jim straddled the offender's lap and stuck the barrel of the gun into his mouth, threatening to end his retched life.

Sylvia had waited for him to see his own darkness, to even taste it a little. But seeing Jim in such a way made her desires fleeting.

"Jim..." Sylvia whispered. "Remember? 'Don't kill him'."

Jim chose not to look at her. He knew that if he did, he'd remember why he wouldn't pull the trigger or stab Sionis, or anything to the affect. Every time he saw Sylvia, thought of her, he'd remember that what made them different people was their ethics—the law separated their values, made them different. The line that Sylvia would pass would ultimately be his own boundary, the one he vowed never to cross.

"James, look at me." Sylvia urged.

"I can't," Jim said, shaking his head. "I... _won't_..."

The assassin wasn't helping; the man under Jim was egging him on, nodding his head vigorously, somehow smirking even with the loaded gun in his mouth.

Sylvia stepped forward, grabbing Jim's head in her hands, and made him look up at her.

"Remember Lee," She told him. "Remember your compass—your damnable morale?"

In those few seconds, he saw the difference between black and white, between what was right and what was easy. By God and his very soul, he wanted so desperately to pull the trigger.

"Think of Lee," Sylvia said again. "Think of Captain Barnes…. What would Mom and Dad think?"

Jim glared at the man underneath him. This man who had caused so much misery and pain. So far, every single criminal that had been placed behind bars, they'd managed to show the legal system itself was corrupt.

Pull the trigger…. Do it…. that's what the assassin was egging him to do. When the man kept making these inaudible but encouraging threats, Sylvia finally moved behind Jim and kicked the son of a bitch between the legs, silencing him.

He could do it…. but then what would his sister think? What would his father have thought?

The inner cop inside pulled him back, and Jim stood, getting up.

The maniac chuckled deeply, "Oh baby, you disappoint me" then started to get up.

Jim nodded towards the man: "Vee..."

"On it," Sylvia piped, and she took his place, sitting on him.

The maniac smirked at her. She put Jim's gun inside the man's mouth once more, and she grinned down at him.

"Don't think you're getting off the hook, hungry-hungry-hippo," Sylvia said snidely. "My brother won't blow your head off, but I'm more than happy to do it."

Tiredly, Jim said from the side, "And she'll do it. Trust me."

The cannibal gulped, looking at Sylvia fearfully.

"That's right. Be scared. And if you so much as move your fucking finger, I'll make sure you'll never hold a fucking gun in your hand ever again—or anything for that matter."

Jim glanced at his sister cautiously, making sure to note that she wasn't going to kill the perp, but keep him scared.

"You have the right to remain silent..." Jim began reading his rights while Sylvia sat on the perp, watching him with unblinking eyes. "You have the right to an attorney…if you don't have one, the government will provide one for you..."

When the back-up arrived, Sylvia was ordered to move aside. They immediately started reading _her_ rights but as Capt. Barnes was being seated in the ambulance, Sylvia was resisting arrest.

" _He said_ I was innocent," Sylvia snapped, keeping her arms out of reach from the arriving officers. "Barnes!"

"Let her go." Barnes ordered.

Jim glanced at Barnes, more surprised than anything that the captain was going to be good on his word.

"She came to help," he said, "knowing that she may be detained on sight. She kept my detective and rookie officer safe, and she helped the GCPD take down a cannibalistic psychopath. Let her be."

"Thank you," Sylvia returned, glaring at the officer who attempted to gather her wrists to cuff them behind her back.

Jim looked at Sylvia tiredly, but grateful that she had arrived when she did. Barnes was being transported to Gotham General Hospital; Officer Katherine Parks was taking the perpetrator to lock-up to be detained and processed. At this point, Jim could breathe a little easier. While evidence was taken and the like, he and Sylvia sat on the hood of his car, looking at the Galavan penthouse with a little ease.

"Galavan's in prison," said Jim, looking at her.

"Yeah."

"I thought you'd be pleased."

"I told you before," Sylvia exhaled exasperatedly. "I want him dead."

"If you killed him, what would you feel after?"

"Vindication."

"Is that what you call it?"

"Vengeance, then." Sylvia returned curtly. "For you, you call it 'justice'. For me, it'll make it easier for me to sleep. Gertrud may have been Oswald's biological mother, but she was my mother too, the closest thing I ever had to one...at least since Fish."

"I thought you hated Fish."

"I hated how she treated Oswald. Sometimes, she would treat him more like a dog than an employee. And she'd treat me the same way."

She paused.

Sylvia said quietly, "Do you remember when she came back from the dead? Wearing that punk stuff."

"Yeah. She had Harvey and me strung up by our wrists. Along with Falcone and Penguin. Not exactly a memory I like to relive, Vee."

"Yeah, but during that time, right before she locked me in a fucking janitor closet, she talked to me...told me how she wanted me to still be her girl, how she treated me like her own daughter," said Sylvia softly. "She wasn't too far from the fact. Some days, she called me 'baby girl'. And during those moments, my life lit up like a Christmas tree."

"Why are you telling me this?" Jim asked.

"I'm sharing a moment with you." Sylvia explained. "All we do is bicker. I want something more than that. I actually want to talk to you and have moments with you that I don't feel so bitter about. Don't you want the same thing?"

"Yeah," said Jim, nodding.

Sylvia sighed, "I tell you this stuff because I want you to understand how much I detest Galavan. Yeah, he kidnapped my mother-in-law. Yes, he threatened me, and my husband. Yes, he kidnapped the Mayor, and rigged the election and made himself the only contender. And, he put Oswald up to the task of killing the mayoral candidates, and setting the fires, but ultimately, he **killed my mother-in-law.** His sister did, I guess...technically. But it might as well have been ordered—and in my line sight, there are no exceptions."

Jim said quietly, "Not everyone sees it the way you do."

"I'm not asking for everyone to see it my way." Sylvia reasoned. "I don't care what Barnes thinks about this whole ordeal, or Harvey, or _anyone_. I want **you** to see it the way I see it. To understand why I feel the way I feel."

"I _do_ understand," Jim insisted.

"Then meet me halfway."

"You just kept me from killing a perpetrator…. now you're asking me to want to kill Galavan?"

Sylvia smiled, saying, "I want you to understand why I'm a criminal. I'm not in it for power, or money—that's not my M.O. I want you to tell me what it is."

Jim smiled endearingly: "Love."

Sylvia cracked a small smile.

"You do understand." Sylvia whispered.

"I've always understood. I just sometimes don't approve."

"Well, that, I can live with."

Sylvia and Jim did a half-hug since they were in company of other police officers. Sylvia side-glanced him.

"Speaking of mother figures, I've actually been meaning to ask you…."

"Yeah?"

"Do you know what happened to ours? Did she pass away or...”?

"I'm not sure. Dad said he'd tell us—"

They said unison, "When we got older."

"Yeah," said Sylvia, slowly nodding her head once. "That's what he said. And look where he is now."

"Why do you think I would know where she was?" Jim asked.

"Well, you're a detective. And you were always the favorite."

Jim stared at her incredulously.

"What?" Sylvia questioned. "You _were_. With your fair grades, and bullshit medals and shit. What did _I_ ever get? A trophy, a _participating_ trophy, by the way, for getting second place in a spelling bee. That's nothing worth boasting about."

Jim patted her leg, saying, "Dad didn't have favorites."

"The hell he didn't—you were all he could talk about when you were at bootcamp. 'Jim this', 'Jim that'…. I was getting so _sick_ of hearing all these good things about you that I would _intentionally_ find ways to put myself in Juvenile school so I wouldn't have to hear it anymore."

Jim gave her a side-glance.

"So," Sylvia continued. "I thought maybe he might have told you where Mom went. Whether she was dead, or maybe they divorced sometime along the way."

Jim shrugged saying, "We'll never know."

"I think she may have liked baguettes."

Jim considered this, then said with a half-smile, "Yeah, that sounds about right. We'll go with that."

Sylvia and Jim chuckled, looking up at the night sky to notice that the clouds had started gathering and it would start to rain soon.

It wasn't a shocking thing. It _always_ rained in Gotham.

Author's Note: For the next two weeks, I will not have my computer with me since I will be spending time with family. However, when I come back, I hope to start writing the following chapters vigorously! :D

**Chapter 44: A Powerhouse of Strength**

On her way back to Ed's apartment, Sylvia thought about her and Jim's relationship. Sure, they've had their ups and downs, and sometimes, there were days where she was just close enough to hating him that she'd shoot him on principle. And then, there were days like today...like tonight, when they were _not_ cop and criminal.

They were brother and sister.

When the odds were against them. It was them against the world, them against the villains. Sylvia smiled as she drove herself back to the apartment. She'd been cleared on any charges against her, thanks to Barnes. In his eyes, for now, she was innocent, and free to do what she wanted.

And she had every intention of setting the record straight, proving that Oswald was innocent. Yeah, he _did_ go after the Mayor, and he did try to kill him, but all of that could be construed as a misunderstanding.

A moment of unclear thinking due to the grief of losing his mother to the very monster that the GCPD and the judicial system were trying to protect. And if Galavan was proven guilty, sentenced to Black Gate _permanently_ , odds are people would look at what Oswald did as a public service, not a crime.

It was a long shot, yes.

But Sylvia had a feel for the people of Gotham. They were scared for now. But fear could be used as a weapon—get them angry enough, get them bloodthirsty enough, they could hunt down Galavan and view Oswald's actions as justifiable.

Sylvia felt her phone vibrating in her jean pocket for the third time. She'd been so distracted by her reverie; she'd almost missed the call. Glancing at the ID, she saw that it was Ed.

"Sylvia," She answered hoarsely.

"Are you okay?"

"Peachy. It's been a long night. What's up?"

"You're not going to believe this."

"Don't give me another riddle, Ed. I'm pretty tired."

"No, no, no. You're going to be happy."

"About?"

"Oswald is back to his normal self!"

Sylvia scoffed, "When I was there, he was depressed. Sulky. No one changes overnight."

"You'd be surprised," Ed returned gently.

"What'd you do?"

"Nothing much."

"Where is he now?"

"Asleep."

"Did you drug him again?"

"There wasn't any need! We just had a nice discussion about a few things, including Galavan, and his mother."

"You talked to him about Gertrud?"

"He was singing a song under his covers. It seemed to hold some deep meaning for him, so I put it on the record—"

"Don't tell me it was—"

"Yep, the same song," Ed reassured. "And he told me what his mother used to tell him at night. Then he tried to leave."

"'Tried'? I thought you told me you didn't drug him," said Sylvia confusedly.

"And I didn't."

"So, what do you mean by 'tried'?"

"Well, long story short: I told him that his mother was dead because of his weakness and that he had to realize that his weakness was her." Ed said simply.

Sylvia stared at the phone, trying to make sure she had heard him right. She heard his voice say her name curiously, and she answered it.

"You told him that his mother died because of _him_?" Sylvia questioned irritably. " _That's a bit harsh, don't you think_!"

"Well, he didn't much care for it either."

"I wouldn't think so!"

"He threatened me, put a knife to my throat."

"Reasonable reaction," Sylvia justified.

"And then I told him that we are better off unencumbered." Ed continued, ignoring her waspish tone. "His weakness was her."

"Gertrud never did anything wrong."

"And, by that fact, she was the only thing keeping him from being what he is," Ed reasoned.

"That woman was an angel. And she didn't deserve to die. And—excuse me—you said he was better off unencumbered? Do _you_ think I'm a fucking weakness? Do _you_ think _I_ need to be stabbed in the fucking back!"

"Sylvia, I can tell by your tone that you don't agree with—"

"You're telling him that love is a weakness!" Sylvia snapped. "Of course,I have to fucking disagree!"

"For most it's a source of strength—"

"I'm going to punch you in the face!"

"Please don't," Ed muttered. "Look—"

"Hold on, I'm pulling up now." Sylvia cut him off.

She got out of her car, parked a block away and in record time, she shot towards the apartment door, and rapped on it with hard knuckles. Ed answered it warily, still holding the phone to his ear. When he saw her, he hung up, and stepped out with her, closing the door so as not to wake up Oswald, who was still sleeping.

Thank god he'd decided not to put her on speaker.

Before he could completely close the door, however, Sylvia grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against the said door, glaring up at him. He had a good foot on her in height, but that didn't make her any less intimidating.

From the fight with the cannibal earlier, Sylvia had a gash on her left cheek from where the chain had snapped on her; eyeliner and mascara alike made dark circles around her eyelids and the fury burning through her retinas made Ed feel like a child again.

"Sylvia—"

"You're telling Oswald that love is a weakness?" Sylvia growled. "When he's most vulnerable! _And_ you're going to shove Gertrud's death in his face, say it's _his_ fault? Who the **fuck** are you to tell him that!"

Ed gulped, his Adams apple quivering while his glasses slowly moved down the bridge of his nose. Sylvia pulled him to her just so she could slam his back against the door once more.

"You're supposed to be taking _care of him_!" Sylvia snarled.

Oswald stirred in his sleep, bringing to their attention Sylvia's less than dulcet tones. Angrily, she grabbed Ed by the shoulder and shoved him into the bathroom, closing the door.

"I understand you're angry—"

"STOP TALKING!" Sylvia shouted.

She threw him against the door again, releasing his collar; it wrinkled where she'd held him in a vice grip and she brushed a hand through her hair vigorously, turning away from him only to send a glare of daggers at him once more. Her nostrils flared.

Ed held up hands in surrender, hoping to fend off whatever rage was inside of her.

Obviously, the thing with her brother didn't go quite to par, but still, he was hoping that whatever fury was buried inside would not come out to today and kill him. For a small petite woman, she was fierce—and Ed was honestly more afraid of her now than anyone else in his entire life.

"I never said..." Ed began cautiously. "For other people—let me get this out before you kill me—for other people love is a source of strength. But for us, it is a crippling weakness. Gertrud, his mother, was a burden he had to hold onto…."

"So, what, because of that she deserved to die?" Sylvia said hatefully.

"Of course not," Ed retorted assertively.

"Oswald loves _me_. Do _I_ deserve the same fate?"

"You're not a weakness."

"But I'm someone he loves, you asshole! You don't think that _I'll_ cripple him?"

"No—you've made him more powerful."

Sylvia blinked, staring at him.

"Gertrud," Ed clarified shakily (trying to get his nerves under control), "could not protect herself. Oswald had to constantly make sure she was okay, and she was used as leverage."

"What the hell do you know what he had to do?" Sylvia said, crossing her arms over her chest. "You don't know anything!"

"Oswald told me enough about her. Talked about her enough. I know she was the only person that cared for him—"

"Besides me," Sylvia snapped. "Besides _me_. He may have lost her, but he still has me."

"Yes, yes," Ed said quickly, stepping a pace back from her in any case she became violent again. "But he had to be reminded. In his grief, all he could think of was about how his mom died at his hands. And—wait, wait, wait! —I _reminded_ him that when a man isn't encumbered by burden, he has nothing to lose."

"He has everything to lose, his _life_ included."

"I think I used a different verbiage," Ed admitted, shaking his hands towards her. "I-I told him that when a man has nothing left that he loves… he can't be bargained or betrayed."

" _I_ love him!" Sylvia snarled, rounding on him. "ME! Are you insinuating that _I_ would betray him!"

Ed nervously took a step back, keeping out of her clutches, but now his back was against the bathroom door and he wondered just how far she would go in her fit of rage. Sylvia glared up at him, eyes wide and almost protruding out of her head; and he'd never seen such fire.

"No, no, no, you're not listening—"

"You better start making fucking sense," Sylvia threatened.

"It's simple, it's _simple_. He can't be betrayed, can't be bargained—his mother was leverage, but you're not! You're not a weakness, you're a….an asset, a powerhouse. But he had to realize that what he'd lost was more than just his mother…. a burden…. and I was able to get through to him. He's not depressed anymore—he's happy now, and—ugh!"

Sylvia grabbed his throat in her hand and shoved him against the door once more.

His fast-talking resonated, and the last part registered within her mind, and she let him go, looking at him with surprise. Her slack made him grateful as he put his own hand on hers and was thankful she released him.

"You pulled him out of his grief?" Sylvia asked, her tone softening to one of genuine thankfulness.

"Yes, _yes_." Ed said, rubbing the column of his neck. "I did. He's better now."

Sylvia blinked up at him.

"You," Ed said quietly. "You're not a weakness. You're not a burden, Liv. You're an asset, you're a powerhouse of strength for him. And he sees that. And I do too."

"You're not saying these things because I was this close to killing you?"

"No. Well, yes, but I'm being honest. And I wouldn't think of pitting you against each other. But Liv, he needed to be reminded that without his mother, he can be a free man. No hiding, no pretending, nothing."

Sylvia crossed her arms, this time more in thought than fury. She looked at Ed quizzically.

"Thank you."

"For?"

"Helping him. You were able to do what I couldn't."

"You wanted to mother him. He needed a reality check."

"I don't _mother_ him."

"That's still up for debate," Ed said, although he allowed himself a small smile. "You're not his mother, Liv."

"I know that."

"You're so much more to him than that."

"I know that too."

"But he had to realize it as well."

"And you got through to him?"

"Yes. Of course, I did."

Sylvia smiled, and it was a nice change from the fire-breathing dragon he just witnessed earlier.

"Ed."

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry for choking you. And threatening you. And yelling." Sylvia said, lowering her hands to her sides: "It's been a long night."

"I'd love to hear about it," Ed said, grinning widely. "First things first" (He touched her cheek, where dried blood was caked along her jaw line) "let's get that fixed up."

"You're touching my face."

"Sorry." Ed apologized, quickly removing his hand.

"Don't be." Sylvia returned sweetly.

She opened the door and walked past him. Ed let out a long sigh. Her words from the other night resonated in his head: _If Oswald was fine with it, I'd have you two under the sheets and between my legs._

Ed couldn't deny that seeing Sylvia in such a fit of rage had him both scared and a little turned on. And how quickly she could switch from being a ruthless dragon to that of a sweet angel had him all kinds of hot and bothered.

Touching her cheek had been a subconscious fleeting desire to get closer to her. For Oswald's sake, Ed could pretend his feelings for Sylvia were purely based on a close friendship. But there was no denying that Ed wanted her in more ways than just platonically.

"Ed?"

"Coming," Ed chirped, responding to Sylvia's call from within his own apartment, darting inside and closing the door.

**Chapter 45: Until Kingdom Come**

The following morning, Sylvia stretched her arms and legs as she woke up to the sound of a cuckoo clock. Her eyes winced at the daybreak of sunshine pouring through the bay window, and she instinctively moved under the covers with a low groan.

Her entire body ached. Sore from kicking ass the night before. Why, then, did she feel like it was _her_ ass that had been put through the ringer?

Morning. Day time.

As she became more attuned with the going-ons around her, she realized she heard Ed talking, and not to himself this time.

"He actually took the job?"

"Not at that moment," Oswald said conversationally, "but within twenty-four hours."

"Wow. A man like Jim Gordon—I wouldn't have ever thought he'd collect any debts...nevertheless for you." Ed said—the sound of his voice convinced Sylvia that a large smirk stretched his mouth from ear-to-ear.

"What happened after?" asked Ed, intrigued.

"Barker ended up dead." Sylvia chimed in, knowing what the conversation entailed, and sitting up from underneath the covers.

Oswald and Ed sat across from each other at the small dining table against the bay window. A glass of orange juice set before each of them and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast untouched as well; they'd just started eating breakfast, allowing herself to sleep in. No doubt that was Ed's idea.

At the sound of her voice, both men turned their heads in her direction.

Sylvia rubbed her neck, cursing under her breath as she stood up; she wore lavender-colored silk pajamas: tank top and shorts. She moved wordlessly into the bathroom and after a moment, the toilet flushed, the sink ran water, and she walked out with her shoulder-length copper locks tied in a loose bun.

Both men admired her from where they sat, and Sylvia grinned modestly at them both before approaching Oswald and kissing him sweetly on the cheek. He grinned up at her.

What Ed had said last night was no lie. Oswald _did_ look more chipper, a smile genuinely reaching his eyes. Sylvia clapped Ed appreciatively on the back when he offered her the rest of the coffee on the burner.

"So, Barker….?" Ed encouraged, looking at Oswald.

"A man who owed Don Falcone."

"And I'm guessing you couldn't get through to him the first time with your other minions. You had to do it the hard way?"

"They always want to do it the hard way," said Oswald apathetically. "Barker in particular was especially rigid around the edges." (He took a drink of his orange juice.) "He believed that since Don Falcone was out of the picture, he didn't owe anything."

"He was sorely mistaken," Ed said, more or less amused.

"That, he was."

Sylvia joined them at the table, stirring creamer and sugar into her coffee wordlessly as she pulled up a chair.

"What did you do to convince Jim to go after Barker?" asked Ed, looking at Oswald admirably. "That man has a higher moral ground than anyone I know."

Oswald looked at Sylvia pointedly, and Ed followed his gaze.

"I offered to go with him."

"But I thought _you_ told Jim it had be to _him_ ," Ed said, puzzled, as he glanced at Oswald. "Right?"

"I would've been there for moral support," Sylvia chimed in, shrugging. "Barker wouldn't listen to me—did not like taking orders from a woman."

"So why not kill him?"

"If we started killing people that supported Falcone, it wouldn't have been very sporting."

"I believe I was the one that told you that," Oswald reminded, looking at her.

Sylvia caught Ed's widened gaze of shock and she said defensively, "I wanted to kill them all—you know, clean house. We were still dealing with Fish loyalists and Falcone had plenty of other capos hiding under ground."

"Not that I don't appreciate your blood thirst." Oswald said kindly, reaching and touching her wrist gently that held her coffee mug by the handle. "However, where it concerned _them_ , business had to be conducted more professionally. Civil."

She withdrew her hand from said handle in favor of taking his hand in hers. Oswald smiled at her lovingly before Sylvia returned it, then looked at Ed pointedly.

"Oswald and I have different...managerial styles," She said, shrugging modestly.

"Clearly," Ed agreed, smirking at the two of them. "But you said Barker ended up dead."

"He came after Jim. Self-defense is a real killer card. Barker shot at Jim. Jim shot back—killed him. Came back with the money, all of it, and then Oz and I paid Commissioner Loeb a visit. Got him to reinstate my brother back to the role of detective."

"Not before you insisted on killing Loeb," Oswald reminded.

"He was a prickly bastard." She said, unapologetic, picking up her coffee mug with her other hand so she could enjoy Oswald holding her other one. "He deserved to die."

"You think everyone deserves to die," Ed noted aloud.

"Not everyone."

Oswald whispered secretively to Ed: " _Mostly_ everyone."

Sylvia shrugged: "What person hasn't done something that's worth being sentenced to death."

Silence.

Ed suggested, "Me?"

"You killed your girlfriend."

"That was an accident."

"An accident you're proud of. For someone who claims that killing his girlfriend was an accident, you certainly are grateful for it. But I digress."

Oswald looked at Sylvia, but not just lovingly. He noticed the small but few stitches on her cheek and a look of concern swept over him.

"What happened there?"

"Where?"

Ed said lightly, "She came to the rescue of Jim Gordon."

"Again?" Oswald responded incredulously.

"He needed my help," Sylvia said, shrugging a shoulder. "And for what it's worth, I've been cleared of any charges. Captain Barnes made an exception last night; I saved his rookie, Parks, and I saved his favorite detective so I'm off the hook."

"Are you going to Galavan's trial?" asked Ed conversationally.

"To watch Aubrey James testify that the fucker put his head in a box?" Sylvia giggled. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Him being in prison doesn't make up for half of what he's done," Oswald said bitterly.

"Killing his lackey kind of made up for it," Ed reminded happily.

"That's true," He agreed, an impish smile reaching his lips.

Sylvia glanced between them curiously: "What lackey?"

"Leonard," Ed explained as though that's all the explanation was needed.

"Who's Leonard?" She asked, looking at Oswald for clarification.

Ed answered (pulling Sylvia's attention to him) "Leonard used to work for Galavan before he was put in Black Gate."

"Cop?"

"No. But he did work for him. I found and kidnapped him. I put him in a chair, a bag over his head, and I had the honor of watching Penguin kill him."

Sylvia looked at Oswald, an unreadable expression on her face. Ed at first thought she was disgusted by the act of contrition, but instead, she looked more or less disappointed but not for the reasons he was certain.

"You killed someone without me?" She asked reprovingly.

Ed watched the interaction between her and Oswald—intrigued.

"I would have waited. But I didn't know when you were coming back."

"Could have called me. That sounds more fun than what I was doing."

"You can kill the next one."

"Where are we going to get another Leonard?" Sylvia pouted.

"Galavan had plenty of people working for him," Ed said, drawing Oswald and Sylvia's attention on him, of which he was happy. "I could find another one—I didn't realize that killing Leonard would mean so much to you, Liv."

"Leonard means less than nothing to me," Sylvia scoffed.

Her apathy made both men grin.

"I just like watching my husband work," She said mischievously, grinning widely at Oswald, who gave a small smile back—but the smugness was swelling deep within him.

Nothing like stroking a man's ego to make him happier to be alive.

"I'll get one tonight," Ed offered.

Oswald held Sylvia's hand in his and touched his lips to the back of her knuckles with a loving kiss, saying, "You can have this one."

Sylvia beamed.

"Fascinating," Ed murmured, looking at the both of them.

Ed went back to work. Mondays were always a hassle for him, but it left Sylvia and Oswald alone in the apartment. Sylvia was in the kitchen, making dinner: steak, baked potato, southern-style green beans. Hooked between her shoulder and ear was her cell phone as she spoke with Mr. Bell on the other line.

Oswald listened in on the one-sided conversation. From what he could tell, Sylvia still had full operation of the Underworld; even though her presence was spotty, she still managed to keep things under control. Oswald watched her pace through the kitchenette, speaking on the phone sternly.

"The club will take care of itself," Sylvia was saying as she stirred the beans on the stove. "I need you at the mansion...Dagger and Chilly are there, they're pretty much the runners at this point. Don't argue with me, Mr. Bell—you know I don't like it when you disagree with me….Well, Dagger will have to do….Tiffany's dead, Mr. Bell, she can't run the club from her grave."

Oswald detected a break in her voice when she mentioned her deceased lieutenant. Only then did he realize that Sylvia hadn't properly grieved over the loss of her employees—or rather her 'kiddos' as she had frequently called them in the past. All of them had died at their expense—Freda, Tiffany, Henry, Marcy—and they hadn't even come close enough to killing Galavan. When they had the opportunity, everything seemed to have fallen apart at the worst time.

"I have the shipment coming in from the docks," Sylvia answered Mr. Bell's question. "After it gets shipped and stocked, talk to them about increasing the tax…They're _not_ going to like it, but I'm sure you can be persuasive. Inflation's a bitch."

Oswald smirked, knowing he'd said the very same thing to the sea captains.

" _What_?" Sylvia retorted. "No—they're going to do what I say. The 'or else' is pretty much implied. If they disagree, you have my permission to get heavy-handed. And if all fails, just use Victor as a threat. They'll either bow to me or bow out—and I'm capable of accepting either…."

Oswald raised his eyebrows in response to that. He'd seen her operate as his queen, but never as the one-ruler. His current whereabouts were unknown to the police or anyone, and as far as the subservient rabble were concerned, she was primarily running the Underworld by her lonesome.

Some would think it was the perfect time to settle some scores. She considered it the prime moment to filter out any weasels and traitors and be ridden of their existence. Oswald admitted that they had different management styles, and for the moment, she was using hers.

And he couldn't have wanted her more. Hearing her bark orders through the phone and run his empire from their current base of headquarters was making his insides squirm in the most pleasurable way.

"I'm fine. No need to worry. The important thing is to _not_ become complacent—I know you know that. I'm just reminding you. One day or later, the student will become the teacher…Yeah, and when it happens, _you'll_ be thanking me."

Oswald watched her pull the baked potatoes out of the oven and place the steak and green beans on three plates, folding the third with translucent foil for Ed whenever the man came back from working the late shift. Sylvia switched the phone from her right shoulder to the left and placed the platter in the refrigerator.

"Yeah, I heard about Galavan. I'm going to his trial tomorrow. If everything goes according to plan, he'll be going to prison for the next decade. By then, there's nothing left for him…I don't think so. Mayor James is testifying and from the sound of it, they're ready to put him in the can…We'll see."

Oswald stood from the table where he'd been sitting and took the liberty of standing in the kitchen with her. Sylvia glanced at him in acknowledgment with a small smile before she turned her attention to Mr. Bell once more.

"I'll meet with the Drays come next week," said Sylvia, rolling her eyes. "The Andersons too. Just…No, tell the head of the Families that I'll meet with them when I do. If they have a problem with that, they can come to _me_. Fine then. Fine...I'll talk to you later. You too."

She hung up the phone and took a long inhale before sighing deeply, looking tiredly at Oswald.

"Everything okay?" Oswald asked.

"Peachy," Sylvia answered dutifully.

She started to move about again, but he took her wrist and pulled her back to him. She sent him a reproachful glance, saw his serious expression, and submitted to standing in front of him.

"You are exhausted." Oswald observed.

"I have a new appreciation for you. No one knows how hard it is to keep an empire running."

"Is that all?" He asked knowingly.

She, on the other hand, appeared puzzled; she furrowed her eyebrows.

"What do you mean 'is that all'?"

"Pigeon."

"What? I'm just tired."

"I heard your voice break when you mentioned Tiffany."

"So?"

" _So_..." Oswald emphasized, "You've been ignoring the facts."

"The facts?" Sylvia said skeptically. "Tiffany died. They _all_ did. What's left of our people is what's keeping the empire from completely falling apart. Dagger, Chilly, Mr. Bell, even Gabe…I'm operating on minimum capacity."

"I'm not talking about the empire." Oswald said dismissively.

"Then I'm lost. What _are_ we talking about?"

"You."

" _I'm_ ship-shape."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying."

"You are. If there's anything I know best is a liar. And, you're forgetting," He said softly as he caressed her chin with his thumb and index finger, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I _know_ you."

"I'm not in the mood to talk about this right now. I'm not ready to talk about what happened. The people we've lost, Oz—I don't want to talk about that. I'm not ready. And I probably won't be until Galavan is put behind bars."

Oswald frowned: "You think it wasn't hard for me to talk about my mother?"

"You talked about her with Ed. You came to terms with it because he gave you a reality check."

"Then it's time for _you_ to talk."

"I don't want to talk."

"I'm not giving you a choice."

"You want to talk about grief, fine by me. I'm still grieving. I'm still hurting. I watched my kids get slaughtered by my brother's people and just thinking about that night hurts me more than I care to admit." Sylvia said snidely.

"You need to heal, Pigeon."

"I don't want to heal!"

Oswald lowered his hands from her, knowing better than to antagonize.

"I can't afford to," She uttered shakily. "I know you're alive and well, and no one is more grateful than me but—for the moment—I am trying to keep the empire from falling apart, _including_ myself. Healing involves forgiveness and I can't forgive myself for what I allowed to let happen. I encouraged them to go to the gala. I _didn't_ protect them like I said I would—like I _should_ have. And it's because of me, they're dead. It's because of me, we don't have _anyone_ right now that I can depend on to keep the Underworld from falling into the hands of people that will destroy everything we've built together!"

She shook. From head to toe, her body trembled. She was holding it together...somehow. And Oswald wasn't blind to it. Seeing her so vulnerable, so fragile shook him too. And all he wanted to do was hold her and tell her that everything would be back to normal soon.

He took her hand in his; and she didn't fight him. Not the slightest bit of resistance.

She said quietly, "I lost her too."

Oswald nodded in understanding. He pulled her to him. And she allowed him to. Her head snuggled in the crook of his neck, and his arms wrapped around her back, pressing her closer to him. Sylvia's arms wrapped around his waist and for a moment, they stood in the kitchen. Just holding each other.

He heard her sniffle.

She held it together when they were going after the Mayor. She'd held her own when Oswald had been shot and she cared for him with little complaint, and she'd hardly spoken a word of that night—at least not to him. And now, she seemed to allow herself to come completely undone. To show him that despite the tough shield she'd kept up in order to operate like the strong leader she was, behind that barrier, Sylvia was hurting.

Even Oswald would forget that she was not a superhuman. She was still a woman who could feel pain and grief. A young woman who'd lost the closest thing to a mother she'd had in years.

"It's okay, honey," Oswald whispered softly to her, rubbing her back.

They stayed like that for a minute. After a moment, she'd pulled herself together and looked up at him. Fresh tears were drying on her cheeks, but she never looked more beautiful.

"I love you." Sylvia uttered, smiling a little.

"As I love you."

Sylvia lifted her head and briefly kissed him. First along his jaw, then his lips. Oswald returned it. And for a second, they considered just how much the other meant to them. Soft kisses became more insistent. It had been weeks since the last time they made love—and this thought seemed to occur to them simultaneously.

Her back was against the counter, and he kept her there, his palms on the surface on either side of her, keeping her pinned.

Kissing first was a tender gesture, and now had become something more of a necessity. Sylvia parted her lips for invitation and Oswald seized it at the first opportunity.

Under his robe, he wore pajama bottoms—and the bandages over his chest and shoulder from when he'd been shot. Sylvia murmured a sound of resistance as Oswald pushed his body against her silky shorts.

"What?"

"Your shoulder."

"My dear, that's the _least_ of my concerns right now."

"But—"

He entangled his hands behind her hair, into the loose bun and pulled out the scrunchie easily so her hair fell down to her shoulders—and he pulled her hair so her head tilted back (she let out a small gasp), granting him open access to her neck, planting pecks along the column of her throat. All the while the bulge in his pajama bottoms slowly grinding between her legs.

The friction was doing things to her.

"Oswald, you're _injured_. You have to recover." Sylvia mumbled, trying her best to ignore the pleas from her own body as her hips met his with every slow grind.

"Injuries never stopped me from getting what I want."

"You could re-open stitches."

"Honey, I _really_ don't care."

"Well, _I_ do."

She pushed him away, and Oswald looked at her as though this was honestly the biggest mistake she could have made. Sylvia seemed to gather this too quickly as she stepped back, a hand out in front of her.

"Once you've healed, _then_ we can fool around." She said sternly.

She saw him. Knew he was definitely 'all better' (as Ed put it) for she saw that glint in his eye. His lust for her. How he'd _craved_ her. The dreams he had of her when he was alone in bed—they'd all come back in a swoop of desire.

"You know I won't stop until I get what I want," Oswald said, the commanding edge was there for her to hear.

"One of your most attractive traits," Sylvia assured, smirking at him as she quickly placed the countertop between them. "But your determination will become a hindrance if we do this. You'll only get hurt."

"Is that a threat?"

"A promise." A twinkle of mischief returned to her eyes. "And you and I _both know_ I'm pretty capable of outrunning you."

Oswald leaned forward on the countertop, hands on the surface—he looked like an overlord debating whether to cast out the rebellious rabble or to accept a treaty based on compromise and mercy. His authoritative stance made Sylvia's knees weak, and her heart to race.

"Believe me," Sylvia said, licking her lips. "I want you. I can't lie about that. But you need to _heal_ and you can't do that if we—Oswald, don't you dare—"

He moved around the table and she'd forgotten how quick he was—with or without the limp. She made a jump from the kitchen to the live-in dining area and then jumped over the couch; he caught her leg just as she'd leapt over the back and she collided onto the floor.

With her newfound disorientation, Oswald pulled her to him by her ankle.

She let out a grunt of effort before she was forced on her back and he straddled her waist and she looked up at him. A startled moment passed before she let out a laugh.

"What the fuck, Oz." Sylvia giggled breathlessly, seeing that he mirrored her.

"You're out of shape, Pigeon." Oswald teased, smirking at her.

"You're out of your depth."

"I'm not the one lying on my back."

"Well not to prod your fancy, but between the two of us, who's _really_ at a disadvantage?"

Her taunt made the hairs on Oswald's neck stand on end and he couldn't deny the accuracy in it. His erection was just aching to break free from his pajama bottoms; he'd never been more sex-crazed before this moment. Sylvia was pinned on her back, but he was the one who wanted sex more than anything.

So, who was the true victor at this point?

"I may be at a disadvantage," said Oswald huskily, "but I can even the playing field. Easily."

"Yeah right. You can't force me to have sex with you. And we both know you _do_ need to recover if you want to get your empire back to its original condition."

"I'm not concerned with that right now."

"Oh, I know. Your concern is buried against my inner thigh right now."

"I'd rather be buried in another part of you."

"Stop it, Oswald." Sylvia chastised, trying to wiggle out from beneath him. "You know what that kind of talk will get you."

"It'll get me what I want."

"Shut up."

She was denying it. But, oh, he _knew_ just what he could do to her just with his words.

She used her hands to push herself, to get out from underneath him but he grabbed and forced them above her head.

"You know I don't want to hurt you," Sylvia said cautiously. "But I _will._ "

He smirked: "I'd be a liar if I said I didn't want to see you try."

"Oswald, I'm warning you."

He silenced her, shoving his mouth against hers. She instinctively responded, her body betraying her words. With one hand holding her wrists together above her head, Oswald used the other hand to reach between them and push her legs apart, so he nestled between them.

Not that she didn't try to use her legs to shove him away. She'd lifted her hips in an attempt to buck him off. But by attempting to do so, she'd rubbed against his full erection and let out an involuntary moan.

"You want it too," Oswald voiced her quaking desires. "We want the same thing."

"No—I _want_ you to recover."

"That's not all you want." He thrusted his hips into hers, rubbing his hard-on into the heat between her legs. "I know it isn't."

"Oswald, stop." She whimpered.

He kissed her harder, unable to stop himself from moaning into her mouth. Keeping her hands pinned above her while slipping his free hand underneath her shirt, groping her supple breasts. She let out a needy moan when he rolled her left nipple between his fingers and her hips lifted, her back arched.

"You know I always get what I want," Oswald uttered between kisses. "And I want _you_."

"Fu…" She moaned. "Fuck you."

"That's what I had in mind, Pet."

"Stop talking."

"I told you I'd even the playing field."

"You're cheating! You know what dirty talk does to me."

"I do know. And it's _working_."

"Stop, Oz."

He felt her body push against his, but not out of resistance. Out of need. Out of want. Her hips rolled into his, partaking in the dry humping he had only started a few minutes ago and now she was a part of it.

Oswald had let go of her hands before this, and they were still above her head—but not by his restraint. By hers.

With both hands now free, he felt every part of her body he could: her back, and stomach, and he felt her breasts through her shirt, feeling the peak of her hardened nipples through the silk cloth.

Her legs lifted around his waist.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No..."

"You _don't?"_

"No." Sylvia moaned. "Don't stop."

"That's what I thought."

They kissed passionately and he ignored the pain in his shoulder. Sylvia let out a whine.

"I need you," She pleaded.

Oswald kissed her briefly on the cheek: "Get on the bed, Pet."

Sylvia nodded vigorously; he let her up and watched her move quickly to Ed's bedpost. She eagerly shredded her clothes to the floor, sitting on the bed with her heels digging into the mattress, completely stripped. Oswald got to his feet and moved towards her, grinning smugly when she quickly met him at the foot of the bed.

"Now I want you to beg." Oswald told her softly, tilting her head up with the heel of his palm, his fingers elongated, running parallel with soft column of her throat; her eyes meeting his with the most doe-eyed look he'd ever seen.

"Please..."

"I know you can do better than that." He condescended.

"Please, _please…_ please fuck me," She pleaded, her voice almost casting a high pitch. She reached for him, her fingers tugging at the waistband of his pajamas. "I want you—I need you inside me. Please, baby. I'll do anything."

"I know you will," Oswald reassured softly, his hands meeting hers. With his palms over the back of her hands, he guided them hands down, his pajamas following suit.

His erection caught her eye and without hesitation, she took him in her mouth, all at once. Oswald groaned, out of surprise but also out of restraint—he could have come right then, just seeing how eager she was, and her tongue and lips surrounded him.

Her hunger was clear in every aspect: her nipples were hard, and the evidence of her excitement was wet against her inner thighs. Her hands moved to his ass, grabbing him in each of her palms, pulling him even closer to her so he was balls-deep in her throat.

"Fucking hell…." Oswald exhaled.

He grabbed her hair and pulled her back. She let him go, and licked the drool from her lips, smirking up at him.

"It's been so long, I've forgotten how enthusiastic you are," Oswald panted.

Sylvia beamed at him before taking his hand and pulling him onto the bed with her. He nearly collided with her before he braced his weight, slipping between her legs, putting Sylvia on her back again. He straightened to take off the robe, casting it to the side without seeing where it fell.

"Never forget how much I love you."

"And I, you." Sylvia returned, grinning widely at him.

He nudged his cockhead between the slick folds of her cunt and entered her slowly, so she could feel every inch of him. It seemed to take forever but it only lasted a few seconds as her muscles clenched and contracted around him, adjusting. She was so wet, so _warm._

For a moment, he'd dropped his guard.

In that moment, Sylvia turned them, so she was on top.

"From this position, you won't injure yourself any further," She explained softly, smirking at him. "Plus, I _do_ like seeing you look up at me from your back."

"It's that kind of talk that will get you in trouble."

Sylvia placed her entire weight on him, sinking onto his cock so the very tip of him rubbed against her g-spot. They both let out a satisfied moan. She pushed the hair from his forehead off his face and kissed his bottom lip; he quickly returned it.

She slowly rode him, and when neither of them could take the agonizing slow pace, she rode him harder. She milked his cock for all he could take, getting closer to the edge and nearly falling over the cliff. After she came, Sylvia rode him harder, riding out her own orgasm to get him where he needed to be.

His fingertips dug into her hips, and she knew there'd be bruises but ignored them all the same. His orgasm came in hot spurts inside her cunt, and it pushed her into a second one, her body trembling thereafter. Her body sank onto his; their soft, quick pants the only sound in the room.

Until that damn cuckoo clock went off again at the stroke of the fifteenth hour.

Three o'clock in the afternoon.

In another two hours, Ed would be coming home from work.

The sound of the clock startled both of them and when they realized just how hyper-vigilant, they were, Oswald and Sylvia both laughed.

They would have to be on high alert after. But for now, Sylvia and Oswald just held each other. Whatever came after, they'd meet it head on. Come hell or high water, they were in this together. And they'd be together until kingdom come.

**Chapter 46: Bitch Is The Word**

Sylvia and Oswald were tangled together under the covers when Ed came home. To his relief, they were both wearing their pajamas, although he had to admit he'd never seen either of them so peaceful looking. So content. Oswald was lying on his back, as he needed to be due to his gunshot wound—although he'd been making excellent progress towards recovery; Sylvia's hand rested on his chest, her head settled in the crook of his neck. Both of them breathed easily.

Ed approached the edge of the bed, lifting the covers so they covered Sylvia completely, hand and all, and tucked them just beneath her head.

He mentally slapped himself as he walked into the kitchen, quietly making a pot of tea. The tea kettle made the shortest whistle before he quickly picked it up so as not to wake the married couple.

 _Married, indeed_.

Ed had to remind himself of that. His feelings for Sylvia weren't lessening. He'd touched her face, for crying out loud. Yes, to point out that she was, indeed, injured and she would need a few stitches, but he ultimately had the urge to touch her. Any part of her. All the time.

"Ed—"

" _Oh my go_ —" Ed jumped half a foot from the ground when he felt a hand on his shoulder and Sylvia's voice directly behind him.

Seeing him jump, Sylvia's eyebrows raised in surprise and she even gasped with a start at his sudden reaction. Seeing her, Ed put a hand to his chest, over where his heart was racing and leaned back against the counter, chuckling in relief.

"You scared the hell out of me," Ed said, looking at her.

"Sorry." She gestured to the stove: "I heard the kettle."

"I didn't think I'd wake you…."

"I'm not normally a light sleeper. Recently, I have been. But don't worry. How was work?" She asked, leaning back against the sink.

Ed glanced her up and down, a brief overview.

She wore her lavender tank top and shorts, and she'd tied a deep ocean blue robe off at the waist. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows; her hair, a tangled mess. Ed cleared his throat—if not just to clear the silence that loomed between them, but to step a pace away from her and to focus on the task at hand: Preparing tea.

"Busy," Ed answered.

"How busy?"

"Very."

"Curt answers aren't your forte, Edward."

He poured himself a cup, then held up the kettle, silently offering.

"Sure, I'll have a glass."

"Sugar?"

"Yes. Thank you."

He added two spoonfuls of sugar into her cup and stirred it, before handing it to her while also taking care not to touch her hands with his. Sylvia watched him with amusement, eyes narrowed in observation as he made sure to put the same amount of distance between them.

"You're acting different," She noted, nodding her head in his direction indicatively.

"How so?"

"Like more than usual. Wanna talk about it?"

"Not with you."

"Well then, you could try discussing that issue with the other 'you'. Perhaps he can provide some insight."

"He's been of no help."

"I'm not surprised."

"Meaning?" Ed chirped, looking at her suspiciously.

Sylvia exhaled, putting the cup aside.

"You're not fooling me, Ed. I've listened to you. I've heard you talk to yourself when you think no one is listening. And I know that you are _constantly_ arguing with your inner monologue."

"Do you?"

"Don't insult me."

"I'm not insulting you."

"Oh, really? You're pretending that I don't know you from before _this_ ," She said, emphasizing her point by gesticulating to his general murderous existence as well as the fact that he was harboring a fugitive from the law within his own apartment, and said fugitive was sleeping in his bed.

She took a step towards him. He stepped back.

"Your feelings for me are getting stronger, aren't they?" She asked knowingly.

"You have no idea." Ed admitted.

He pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose, and mentally conked himself in the head for even confessing it.

"Do you want to talk about _that_ then?"

"What good is talking about it if it can't happen?"

"What good is it _not_ talking about it and letting it fester into something that could destroy our friendship?" Sylvia said candidly. "I want nothing more than to be a friend to you—you're probably my only friend that I can truly rely on. I'd hate for that to extinguish due to bottled emotions. And if you refuse to seek consolation from your other 'you' then maybe I'm your only other option."

"You propose an interesting point."

"Don't sound so surprised; I tend to do that. You're not the only one with an inflated ego, you know."

Ed smiled at her teasing before he sighed with resignation, "So what do you suggest we do?"

"Get everything out in the open," She offered, clicking her fingernails on the counter. "Put all the cards on the table."

Ed nervously fiddled with his glasses, adjusting them, re-adjusting them, taking them off to clean them until finally Sylvia approached him in one liquid movement, and took his glasses off his face, placing them neatly on the counter behind him.

It was silent, but she'd nonverbally told him to stop what he was doing, stop distracting himself from the current situation, and pay attention to what was at stake.

"So, you want me."

"Yes."

"Emotionally?"

"Yes."

"Sexually?"

" _Yes_ ," Ed said more firmly. "In every…." He felt his voice hitch in his throat. "...In _every_ way."

"And what if I did not want the same from you?" She proposed softly...an audible sound with a visual image of velvet on leather.

"I'd recant."

"Would you?"

"Yes."

She eyed him, not out of any suspicion but out of amusement. Trying to measure him up, size up his declaration. Ed kept his hands beside him, on the counter. But there was no denying that he wanted more than anything than to swoop her in his arms and take her over the nearest surface. No hesitation, no refusal. Just plain, animalistic sex.

"For your awareness, I'll admit that I _have_ thought about it," She confessed, crossing her arms over her chest...guarding herself.

Ed blinked: "You have?"

"Of course, I have. I mean, we have a few things in common, you and me: a flare for riddles, intelligence, that sort of thing. And you get my quirky sense of humor."

Ed smiled, unabashed as he added, "I like your sense of humor."

"I know you do."

"And?"

"Well, that's where it stops. I like you, Ed. A _great_ deal. But..." She glanced wistfully at the bed where her lover slept. "I love Oswald."

Ed gulped. She could hear him swallow his nerves. At that moment, Oswald mumbled in his sleep, turning in his covers. It was as though that ended the odd hypnotic hold Sylvia had on him. Ed picked up his glasses, cleaned them on his shirt then placed them on the bridge of his nose, looking at her through them but not completely seeing her.

"Unrequited love is the hardest to swallow," Ed said quietly.

"I love you as a friend. That's all I _can_ offer to you. My friendship. And, honestly, it's all that I would. If you can't have me as a lover, will you still have me as your friend?"

"I suppose…." Ed muttered. "I suppose I should have seen this coming. I shouldn't have expected any other result."

"You can understand where I'm coming from, can't you?"

"I can."

"Are we still friends?"

"Of course."

A moment of awkward silence appeared.

Ed cleared his throat, changing the subject: "You're going to Galavan's trial tomorrow?"

"I am."

"What about your club?"

"It'll keep itself."

"Do you need help running it?"

"No—my people tend to keep close watch on my assets."

The discussion from before seemed to die away to Ed's relief and he offered the kettle to her once more.

"No thanks…. I've had plenty of tea," Sylvia said, smiling gratefully. "I think I might actually go to my brother's."

Ed chuckled, "He lives in his own place?"

"He mostly lives with Lee—same deal, I suppose. I've not heard from him a couple days, so I figured I might as well pop by."

"Your brother is very lucky to have you for a sister."

Sylvia looked at Ed with a cock of her head, but she smiled: "You know, I've been thinking the very same thing."

"Are you leaving now?"

"I've gotta change first. After that, I'll be heading out."

"It's late."

"I can't sleep anyway," said Sylvia, shrugging carelessly.

"Neither can I. You've left me with plenty to think about," Ed said, looking at his cup of tea.

Sylvia heard the tone in his voice shift from concern to that of passive resentment. Ed had heard it himself, but he hoped she would carry on, not say a word about it—he'd hoped she'd not even heard it to begin with but he couldn't be so lucky. And he should have known better: Sylvia wasn't the type to 'talk about it later'.

She put a hand on his wrist, and he glanced at it before lifting his eyes to meet hers.

She appeared so sincere.

"If circumstances were different, Ed, we might have been something more. This is going to complicate our friendship, perhaps we should consider the alternative."

Ed glanced down at her hand on his wrist and for a moment, he considered breaking things off with her. However, she was a breath of fresh air to the people he worked with and not having her in his life would be more painful.

"I would not have it any other way," Ed said lightly, touching the back of her hand.

"I'm glad to hear it."

Sylvia left to the bathroom and she came back out in ten minutes wearing black leggings and a blood-red long-sleeve shirt. She wore black, laced up boots. She gathered her purse and phone and then placed a handgun inside the purse, exchanging a knowing look with Ed.

She stopped by the bed, leaning over to kiss Oswald's forehead.

"Sylvia….?"

"Yes, it's me, sweetheart," Sylvia reassured.

"Where are you going?" Oswald asked groggily, his eyes squinted against the lights within the apartment.

"I'm just going out for a sec. Just to make sure my brother is okay…. get some fresh air, that sort of thing."

"Be careful."

"I will."

"I love you."

"As I love you," Sylvia returned, kissing him.

He turned on his side and fell back to sleep.

Sylvia started to the door, waving at Ed.

"Be careful."

"Always."

He watched her leave.

Sylvia drove to Lee's house. She didn't have to call ahead of time; she knew that her brother would be there. He hardly lived at his place anymore; in fact, she wondered if he even owned an apartment. She pulled up to the sidewalk, parked the car, and glanced up at the sky—dark and gray as ever—seeing that it was raining.

It _always_ rained in Gotham.

She stopped at the front door, pressing the button at the entry point. It buzzed, and Lee's voice came from the speaker.

"Who is it?"

"It's me."

A moment passed. There was probably a minute where Lee was telling Jim that his sister had arrived at nighttime, unannounced. In record time, Jim's voice came from the speaker.

"Vee, are you alright?"

"Right as rain," said Sylvia, not hiding the sarcasm from her voice. "I need to talk to you."

"About?"

"The weather."

"How about without the sarcasm?"

"The trial, then. The one for tomorrow."

"Right," Jim sighed (she could practically _hear_ him rolling his eyes). "Come on in."

Sylvia opened the front entrance, walking through the door. She walked into the kitchen to see Lee who was standing in her red wine-colored robe and Jim, who was dressed in his best uniform, looking like he had been rained on.

"When did you put in that new security system?" She asked, gesturing to the door. "I thought those things only existed in apartment buildings and condos."

"It was recently installed," Lee quipped, looking more or less annoyed.

Sensing the tension, Sylvia glanced at Jim.

"Forget your umbrella?" She humored.

"Don't even start," Jim grumbled.

He glanced at Lee, who smiled at Sylvia politely, but she didn't say anything else. Instead, she turned on her heel, walked straight into the bedroom, and then closed the door without another word.

Sylvia glanced after her: "Wow, you couldn't cut the tension in here with a fucking _chainsaw_."

"We had something of a disagreement," Jim muttered, walking back into the kitchen.

He sat at the counter where a couple stools were presentably comfortable, even offering her a cup of Jack Daniels. She politely declined. She stood opposite of him, and he drained half his glass without pause. The ice cubes had barely melted as he poured himself a second one.

"What has _you_ frazzled?" Sylvia asked.

"Remember Parks?"

"Yeah, Rookie-Officer-Good-Ole-Katherine Par—"

"She died."

Sylvia blinked, and retracted her humorous limerick in exchange for a somber expression. Sensing that Jim would speak more to the fact, she remained silent, watching him take a sip of the new glass.

"She was twenty-three," said Jim, disgruntled. "Just out of the academy. And we buried her. This morning."

"She was part of the Strike Force."

"Yeah."

"And she died. How?"

"That cannibal psychopath," said Jim, gritting his teeth. "The one we put away…He killed her. At the station. We didn't even get the chance to put him behind bars."

"But he had no weapons on him. _I_ searched him myself."

"He bit her neck. Like a goddamn vampire."

Sylvia interlaced her fingers together. "Are you blaming me for that?"

"No."

"So, you're blaming yourself."

"I had the chance to kill him."

"And you didn't."

Jim said resentfully, "You convinced me not to."

"So, you _are_ blaming me."

"I'm not."

"You just said that I convinced you to spare him." Sylvia reminded. "And I hear the blame in your voice. You can't get rid of that."

"A perp—a psychopath—murders four cops and I have the chance to do something and I don't. What does that make me?"

Sylvia shrugged, "Perhaps I'm not the one to discuss this with, Jimmy."

"Maybe you are."

"Lee is probably better."

"We've talked."

"And argued? Is that why she barely looked at me before closing herself in the bedroom."

"We disagreed."

"About?"

"Killing him, the psychopath. I had the chance. I had my gun right where I wanted. In his mouth. And I don't pull the trigger."

"Because you're better than that."

" _Am_ I?" Jim growled, glaring at her. "I wanted to kill him."

"Why didn't you?"

"You convinced me not to!" He snapped.

"Ergo, you _are_ blaming me!" Sylvia snapped back. "Goddamn, James— _You're_ the one that was telling me that I couldn't kill the fucker, because we had to find out who put the hit on you in the first place. I was more than ready to lay waste to the guy. Not because he killed your cop friends, but because he was threatening _you_. But you told me to spare his life. As it turns out, I had to tell _you_ to follow your own goddamn rules."

"That's not the point."

"You're right." Sylvia recanted. "The real point is that a fucking psycho kills your cops, kills your rookie, and you're blaming yourself for not taking the guy out when you had the chance. You're remorseful, you have compassion. That's normal, James. And you want vengeance."

"I want justice."

" _Vengeance_ ," She corrected. "Your sense of justice—in this context, at least—is nothing less than vengeance. You want retribution for what he's done, you want to see him rot in hell."

"That's not the point."

"No, Jim—that _is_ the point!" She smacked the table with her palm. "Despite it, we both know you're better than that. I'd have rather killed the son of a bitch myself than see you bend your own fucking rules for a man who doesn't deserve that honor."

"I wouldn't have let you do it."

"You wouldn't have been given a choice. If I had been playing by my own rules that night, I would have severed his head."

Jim ignored her point to make; instead, he grumbled more to himself than to anyone else: "I didn't kill him."

"He was your prisoner—you couldn't. He was your responsibility."

"The cops that died tonight died because of me."

"You didn't kill those cops, though, _he_ did!"

"The gunman was coming after _me_."

Sylvia let out a harsh exasperated exhale, rolling her eyes.

She said coldly, "You feel guilty, fine. You want 'justice', fine by me. But don't feel like you could have done more. You can't _always_ be the hero, Jim. You can save this person, _maybe_ two, and you can save your boss, and your family, but what you can't do is save **_everyone_**. It's literally humanly impossible!"

Jim ignored that, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes as he added, "Galavan is behind it."

"Galavan is behind a _lot_ of things."

"He's responsible. He might as well killed Essen, Parks—"

"I'm not disagreeing you. But he is going to prison. He's serving his sentence."

"I visited him today."

Sylvia blinked, "Did you?"

"Yes."

"How'd that go? Did you turn off the cameras, beat him within an inch of his life?"

"No. I'm better than that."

"Yes, you are. But I'm not. Should have taken me with you. I'd have taught the bastard a thing or two about pain," said Sylvia darkly. "I'd ruin him before any of those prisoners in Black Gate even had the chance to pop his ass cherry."

"That's disturbing."

"Maybe, but you're not disagreeing with me." She clicked her tongue. "So, if not to punish him before the rest of the world does, why did you visit him?"

"To see…." Jim began. He paused before saying, "I'm not even sure."

"How did he look?"

"I've seen him look worse."

"Did he look like a skeleton?"

"No."

"Maybe like a ghoul? You know, if you had asked, the guards would have gladly given you free reign of those cameras. Make it look like a systemic malfunction."

Jim suddenly sprang to his feet, which surprised her; her eyebrows raised at his exclamation.

"You don't understand! He doesn't look like a man who's about to serve a decade in prison!"

"He's a man with no friends, and not even his own sister is going to help him. It's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

" _Yes_."

"He just had this look on his face."

"Again, he's a man in jail, with no friends. He's going to rot in prison and all of us will sleep better because of it. I think that he was just trying to get under your skin one more time while he still had the chance."

"A man who has nothing to lose does not look like the way Galavan looked today," Jim said emphatically. "I have a bad feeling."

"I thought that was from Parks dying on you."

"A different feeling."

"So, you had some bad Mexican food—"

" _Sylvia!_ "

"Alright! **Damn**. Forgive me for trying to lighten the mood!" She snapped, glaring daggers back at him. "Were you this hostile towards Lee? No wonder she looked punitive."

Jim sat back down, shaking his head.

"I have a bad feeling. Something bad is going to happen."

"Well. He's a bad man. Sometimes, bad things happen to bad people. And he's done _plenty_ of bad things. For instance: he killed my mother-in-law."

"Not to point out the obvious, but no one has found her body."

"I don't need a fucking body to prove it. I _saw_ her die. In my husband's arms. That should be fucking enough for you to believe it."

"A jury won't believe it."

"She's not on a fucking _cruise_ ," Sylvia retorted, grabbing his glass of Jack Daniels, and placing it away from him. "She's dead, lying on the ground, giving some fucking maggots and cockroaches a feast of their lives and you're telling me you don't—"

"—I believe you."

"Then, _please_ , would you fucking _act_ like it!" Sylvia snarled.

Jim looked intimidated for a brief second: "I need proof."

"Proof? I can lead you back to where I last saw her."

Jim glanced up at her, thinking he might have misheard her.

"A warehouse. By the port. I can lead you there, show you where Galavan had her locked up for days, where they tortured her. Galavan and his sister both. Galavan is a bad man, James—you _know_ he killed Gertrud, he didn't deny it. You put him away, he'll rot in Black Gate. Even better: Mayor James is going to testify to kidnapping and torture, and that'll keep him in there for at _least_ ten years."

"I saw him," said Jim, like he was chanting a mantra. "He knows something."

"He knows he's a prick."

"I'm serious, Vee."

"I am too." She handed him back his drink. "You shouldn't worry."

A charged moment between them settled, the dust clearing from the fight. Jim looked tiredly at Sylvia.

"Any word on Penguin?"

"If I knew, do you think I'd tell you?"

"Probably not."

She clapped him on the back: "Good man. How's Barnes?"

"Alive and kicking."

"How's the leg?"

"Injured."

"The doctor didn't keep him in the hospital?"

"Who cares what the doctor said."

"Can't keep a good dog down," Sylvia chuckled.

"Not Barnes."

"How's Harvey?"

"Also, fine." He looked at her: "Do you really not know where your husband is?"

"I don't know where he is." She said flatly.

"You're lying to me."

"You can read me like a book. But if you want to find your brother-in-law, you gotta go somewhere else. Not me, buddy."

"You can be a real bitch, you know that?"

Sylvia grinned, "I'm glad someone finally said that instead of just calling me 'insufferable'. So, are you going to the trial?"

"Yeah. Are you?"

"I was planning on it."

"I don't think you should," Jim said carefully, lifting his head to look at her.

"This is probably going to be the only moment of exoneration I get, and you want me to skip it? Why?"

"I don't know. I just have a feeling."

"Oi, with your feelings already."

"I mean it. And I'm serious."

"When are you not?" Sylvia teased.

Jim gave her a look, and she held up her hands in surrender. He took another drink from his glass.

"Why are you even here?" asked Jim.

"To talk."

"Why tonight? It's...god, it's eleven o'clock at night."

"I couldn't sleep. And I needed the fresh air."

"How's the club business?"

"Fairing."

Jim paused before he said softly, "I'm sorry for what happened to your employees."

She felt a sudden pang in her chest. Since she hadn't had any Mexican food, she was certain that was a small spark of love and feeling for her brother's sincerity.

"Me too."

"Will there be a funeral?"

"People don't have funerals for people like us," Sylvia said despondently. "But thanks for asking. And thanks for the apology."

"When's Gertrud's funeral?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I've considered paying my respects. For the few minutes I've interacted with her, she seemed like a kind-hearted woman."

"She is… _was_. And I miss her."

Jim slowly stood. She stared at him suspiciously as he rounded the counter and she flinched when he hugged her. Then she hugged him back.

"I'm sorry. I really am."

"I am too."

"I don't think you should go to the trial."

"I don't think we should be hugging this long."

"I think you're right."

They quickly separated and laughed away the silliness.

"What's on your agenda for the rest of the night?" Sylvia asked.

"Drinking."

"Now you're sounding a little more like Bullock. Maybe a little make-up sex between you and Lee?"

"Doubt it."

"If you initiate it, she might take your offer," Sylvia said slyly.

"I don't think—"

"Just fuck her tonight," She said, taking her purse and placing the strap over her shoulder.

"How crude."

"But true. If I were in her shoes, I'd want the same thing."

"That sounds just—that's disturbing."

"I know. I didn't think about how that would sound until I said it."

"Well, Vee. I think this is a great stopping point."

"Yeah, good talk," said Sylvia, waving. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Stay safe."

"You too!"

**Chapter 47: Galavan's Let Go**

"When's the shipment coming in?" Sylvia asked.

Dagger answered her, "Possibly tonight, or tomorrow."

She rounded the bar, quickly speaking to the bartenders who registered her instructions before she turned to Dagger saying, "When it does, get it to the back; have either Brittany or Delilah stock the refreshments—they know what the Regulars prefer."

"Which one is Brittany?"

"The blonde," She answered patiently, pointing to the Rapunzel figure that wore her hair down to her waist in long velvet ribbons.

"Delilah hasn't been in."

"She should be working tonight. She works every other day. When the Drays come in, have _her_ serve them. She knows what they like. Not to mention the heir fancies her. He tips well, but he tips _her_ the best."

"What about the Andersons?"

"They'll be coming in on the weekend. I'll be here during that time." Sylvia said dismissively. "When they come, just do whatever. I'm not concerned about them; they're easily appeased by any amount of alcohol. The grandfather is visiting from Brussels—he has a reputation for being a sloppy drunk, so make sure you call the cleaning crew the night of."

"I don't know how you keep up with all of this, Liv. Look, maybe you should get Brittany to do this."

"Brittany is beautiful as a bartender, but she's full of hot air. I can't trust her to run the club."

"But you trust _me_?" Dagger said incredulously. "I'm flattered but you've got the wrong man."

"I've got the _right_ man," She returned, smiling reassuringly. "You don't give yourself enough credit. You're more than a bouncer."

"I don't think so."

"Well, it doesn't matter what you think. You'll still be my main man when I want some skulls cracked, but until I find a successor, I'll need you to keep things in check for me. Can I count on you to do that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you," She said sincerely, gently tapping his wrist. "If things get messy, get Chilly to help you out. He's not the smartest crack in the wall, but he's one hell of a bruiser when we need him. If he gives you any shtick, remind him that he still owes me fifty thousand dollars, and that if it wasn't for me, his head would be mounted on Falcone's wall."

"Will do," said Dagger, grinning toothily. "What about the other shipment?"

"The booze comes on schedule—the captains don't work for the dead anymore."

"Meaning Maroni?"

"Exactly. They'll deliver."

"What about the guns?"

"Next Thursday, Dagger. Don't get ahead of yourself," Sylvia said comfortingly.

"What about your meetings?"

"Don't worry about the extra stuff—Mr. Bell will be handling that for me. I just need you to make sure the club is taken care of and people aren't robbing us blind."

"Will do."

"Good man."

He grinned at her praise before heading off to catch the bartenders with further instructions. At that moment, Gabe approached and she smiled at him warmly.

"Hiya, Liv."

"Hey, Gabe."

"Business is doing pretty good."

"As always."

"Anything for me and the boys?"

Sylvia shrugged, "Nothing yet. People have been pretty obedient the past few days. Take a load off; have a drink on me."

"Thanks, Liv!" Gabe said enthusiastically, hugging her tightly.

"Air! Gabe, _air_!"

He quickly let her go, still grinning.

"I've got to go."

"Where you heading?"

"A trial."

"Galavan's?"

"Who else?"

"Have fun!" said Gabe, waving after her.

Sylvia smiled and headed out the door.

She arrived at the courthouse, taking a seat beside Captain Barnes who glanced her, slightly affronted; that was until she asked about his leg.

"Doing better every day," said Barnes coolly.

"Glad to hear it." She returned genuinely. She said with a softer note of compassionate: "I'm sorry to hear about Parks."

"It happens to the best of us."

"It shouldn't though."

"I couldn't agree more," Barnes grumbled, glancing at her sideways at her. "Why are you here?"

"I'm here for the same reason you are."

"To see justice being served?"

"Something to that affect."

She glanced around.

"Where's Jim?"

"I was going to ask the same thing."

"I've not seen him since last night."

"Well, a lot of stuff happened since last night."

"For example?" Sylvia said curiously.

"It's a need-to-know only basis."

"Typical cop stuff, huh?"

"Detective Gordon mentioned you had a topical sense of humor," said Barnes patiently. "But he never mentioned just how cynical you can be."

"I have a dark sense of humor."

"Darker than most cops."

"Even darker," Sylvia reassured—but that didn't make Barnes feel any more at ease.

She glanced at the bench where Galavan sat next to his lawyer; on the other bench sat the lawyer, Harvey Dent; beside him was Mayor James, who looked more nervous than any other moment Sylvia had seen him. Not that she made it her goal to see James on a daily basis.

Barnes looked at Sylvia. She wore a black flannel shirt, boot-cut jeans, and black boots. Not the typical court attire.

"Did you just come from work?" Barnes asked.

"Making small talk with a felon, huh?" Sylvia teased. "Color me flattered."

"Don't humor me."

"Then I won't. To answer your question, Lieutenant Serious, yes. I did."

"You realize I'm a Captain."

"I know. But unfortunately, due to your lack of humor, I demoted you."

"Cynical _and_ playful."

"Add it to my resume," Sylvia said; the corner of her mouth upturned into a beautiful smile. "Along with running a five-star night club."

"Ah. And how _is_ the business?"

"Fair."

"Good to hear."

"You don't have to placate me. I know you detest my business," She said, grinning broadly at him. "But though as despicable as you may find my club, an unwelcome guest to my club does that not make. If you ever want a free drink, you're more than welcome to partake, Captain."

"Is that so?"

"Cops drink for free." She informed, crossing a leg over her knee. "Considering this is our first interaction that didn't consist of you holding a gun to my fucking head or _any_ threat for that matter, you'd have learned it before. So, I'm telling you now."

"I'm surprised you don't serve poison to your clientele."

"Well, that's never crossed my mind; I've been told that revenge is best served cold." Sylvia said slyly. "But that wouldn't be good for business if I killed the people who were giving me money."

"Fair point."

"Thought so."

Barnes and Sylvia smiled at each other. It was the first of many interactions, but Sylvia was certain that she was growing on Barnes. Even if he still looked at her like she was an insect that needed to be swatted.

The judge was a stark of a woman, with a tight bun. A severe plait, indeed. Her no-nonsense seemed more than reassuring. Sylvia glanced at the jury—people who were very aware that this entire situation was serious and the tension in the air alone made it hard for anyone to breathe.

Then there was Galavan, dressed up in an Armani suit. Looking Debonair as usual.

Sylvia wanted to cut off his face.

"What's your agenda for coming here, seriously?" Barnes said under his breath.

"Justice." Sylvia humored, smirking at him. "Why else would I come to the trial of a man I absolutely loathe?"

The trial started with the rapping of the judge's gavel. Galavan was questioned by his own attorney, and then Harvey Dent had a crack at him. The jury seemed to see through Galavan's supposed purity, and Sylvia was even convinced that the man facing trial and prison would finally be put away. For good.

As soon as they questioned his whereabouts, the devil announced himself. Jim Gordon slid between the benches and sat between Sylvia and Barnes, only glancing surprisingly between the two since they hadn't mauled each other to death. Sylvia grinned expectantly at Jim, glancing at him when he leaned into Barnes.

"Where the hell have you been?" His captain demanded.

"Bullock and I captured one of the monks."

_Monks?_

Sylvia's interest was already piqued.

"I was right," He continued. "They're performing some sort of ritual to cleanse the city of sin. They have one victim left; they're calling him the 'Son of Gotham'."

"That could refer to anyone," Sylvia muttered.

"Shh!" Jim hushed.

"Did they say anything about Galavan?" asked Barnes.

Suddenly the crowd let out a bunch of gasps of surprise and shock. Sylvia glanced up to see Mayor James on the stand, questioned by Harvey Dent, who looked just as taken aback as the rest of the court.

"Order in the court!" The judge hollered, rapping her gavel on the podium. She turned to the former mayor of Gotham, "Mr. James. Please repeat what you just said."

"Theo Galavan did not kidnap me," said James more firmly, his eyes settled on his own podium.

More gasps from the gallery. Jim and Sylvia were both in shock; Barnes glanced cautiously at the siblings.

"Your Honor!" Harvey Dent quickly objected. "The witness has suffered—"

"Quiet," the Judge hushed sternly. "Please _explain_ yourself, sir. Why did you lie? Who held you captive?"

A pause.

"Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin."

" _Liar_!" Sylvia shouted, shooting to her feet.

The gallery glanced at Sylvia, including that of the Judge, James himself, and Galavan at the bench. Harvey Dent turned around, startled, seeing her there.

"He hates Theo Galavan," James continued (since he was on a roll and it was all about to go downhill anyway). "He tried to kill him multiple times...He told me to what to say—"

"DON'T BELIEVE HIM!"

"He threatened me with terrible things," said James carefully.

"He's lying!" Jim shouted, standing with Sylvia.

At this point, Barnes had to shout for both of them to take a seat, getting up with his cane and walking after Jim, who had begun storming to the front. Sylvia was just behind him.

"Detective Gordon, _silence_!" the Judge ordered, glaring at him. "As for _you_ " (She pointed a bony finger at Sylvia) "Calm yourself."

Galavan's lawyer stood as well, saying, "Your Honor, I move that my client be released at once!"

"He's guilty!" Sylvia urged.

"Your Honor," Harvey Dent argued, "The State requests a recess to further—"

"QUIET!" the Judge said, raising her hands.

Sylvia looked at her desperately. Jim looked just as furious. Barnes was holding onto Jim's arm, keeping him restrained and it was only by Sylvia's anticipation that she hoped her outburst had made a difference. But to no avail.

The Judge looked at the witness.

"Mr. James," She said strictly. "You do realize that you are under oath?"

James looked as though he was remorseful, trying to seek out a silent compassion from—not the gallery—but from Jim and Sylvia as he said, "Oswald Cobblepot tortured me and put my head in a box. He made me lie...I'm so very, very sorry."

"In light of Mr. James' testimony and the complete absence of any other evidence provided by the State, I hereby order the release of Theodore Galavan and the case against him dismissed."

"YOUR HONOR!" Jim bellowed.

"Jim, stop—there's nothing you can do!" Barnes insisted, grabbing him, and pulling him back.

He started to pull away, stepping forth.

"Jimmy, _stop_!" Sylvia said quietly, taking Jim's hand and pulling him back as well. She knew what would happen if he antagonized the judge any further and she wasn't anxious to see her brother locked away.

Galavan, smug bastard that he was, said to the judge, "Your Honor. May I say a few words?"

Playing Devil's Advocate, Judge said plainly, "I think that's only fair."

Galavan smiled in appreciation and as he spoke, he approached Jim and Sylvia; the closer he came to them, Jim's arm came up and pushed Sylvia behind him. When it came down to it, Jim knew Galavan had hurt her to a point of unforgivable cause and he refused for Galavan to even _approach_ her now.

"I'd just like to state," He drawled, "that I harbor no ill will toward Detective Jim Gordon or the GCPD. They did their jobs. They're still _my_ heroes. What do you say, Detective Gordon? Do you think we can move forward, together, and fix this broken, beautiful city?"

" _Jim_..." Sylvia whispered.

"While you think on that," said Galavan lightly, smiling at Jim then turning to Sylvia. "I'd like to say a few words to the woman who has irrevocably turned my life upside down….in one way or another…."

Sylvia frowned at him.

"Your husband, Oswald Cobblepot, is a mistaken man. I mean," Galavan chortled. "I doubt there's a man who is more un _deserving_ of a beautiful, honorable, and devoted person like you. Morally speaking, I think the court—even the jury—would say that if anyone was more deserving of a doting wife, it would be _me_."

Galavan approached her, standing in front of her, ignoring Jim's protective stare. Sylvia glared back at him, and her hands nearly trembled with the urge to strangle him. When her brother peered at her, he could see how her eyes had watered, the hatred on her face evident for the entire court to witness.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is…you fell for a man who not even a mother could love..."

Well, that just about did it.

Galavan didn't even finish his sentence before Jim wielded back and punched the fucker in the face.

"YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH! YOU'RE A SON-OF-A-BITCH!"

The press clamored, snapped pictures. Galavan was a drama queen and held his face from where Jim had punched him—not before he got another right hook in, putting Galavan on his back.

"GORDON!" Barnes growled.

"SON OF A BITCH! I'M GOING TO GET YOU!"

The bailiff and another officer started pulling him outside.

"I'M GOING TO GET YOU!" Jim roared, struggling against them.

"GET HIM OUT OF HERE!" The Judge ordered.

Sylvia watched the bailiff and the officer pull Jim out. She glowered at Galavan, who smirked smugly back at her. Fearing that she'd retaliate, the Judge ordered her out as well. An officer approached Sylvia, taking her arm; she pulled back.

"I'll fucking let myself out." Sylvia said harshly.

"Get a move on then."

"Fucking pig." Sylvia hissed, leaving the court room.

She followed where Jim had been escorted out, the single officer tailing her. She glanced outside and saw Jim had been hit with a taser; he was lying on the ground, his body convulsing. It wasn't until she felt the taser herself that she realized that the officers that had escorted Jim and herself out of the courtroom weren't the best—they worked for Galavan.

Her head hit the wet concrete—even before then, she was out cold.

**Chapter 48: Fortune's Wheel**

Sylvia felt her wrists being constricted; at first, she thought a very strong python had found its way out of a cage and had mistaken her for a tasty morsel. It wasn't until she opened her eyes that she realized her wrists were zip-tied (a little too tightly) to a panel of wood, the appearance similar to that of a rack used in medieval times…except, she was able to stand.

She stood parallel with Jim Gordon, who looked to be in the same boat. Except for him to wake up, Galavan punched him square in the face, promptly waking up the detective.

"Vee..." Jim mumbled, seeing her.

"Don't sound too relieved." Sylvia muttered resentfully, looking to the front to see Galavan wearing his suit (of course) and a bellowing trench coat.

The air felt less dense, but colder than usual. Maybe it was because the sentence of death was just hanging on their shoulders. It was the only reason she and Jim were hanging like pigs in a slaughterhouse. Sylvia twisted her wrists in an attempt to get free, but the sensation of cutting and burning stopped that action in a heartbeat.

She winced at the feeling. Jim apparently tried the same because he was grimacing too. But maybe not for the same reason. Looking around and behind Galavan, the same officers that had detained them were standing with either their hands on their hips, or arms crossed, a look of smug satisfaction twisting their expressions.

"My, my," drawled Galavan. "What a day can bring. Here, _you're_ the prisoner. And _I'm_ free." He leaned forward tauntingly, adding, "Bet you didn't think that was going to happen, huh?"

He glanced at Sylvia, "Don't worry, dear. I've not forgotten about you."

"Aw, small blessings," She snarled.

"Never a dull moment with you, is there?" Galavan chuckled, crossing his arms with that same smug smile. "Always getting the last word in, no matter what situation you're in. You always have some clever, twisted comeback ready, don't you? Normally, that's my bit…Although, admittedly, I normally have to make it up as I go."

"Well, that's the only thing you could ever get up."

"Not that you would be able to know that personally, of course."

He folded his hands, glancing between Jim and Sylvia alike, and he stood closer to her. She rolled her eyes and let out a familiar heated scathing noise similar to that of a hissing cat.

"You've basically proven my point. Now, before I speak to your brother and ignore you completely, I'm going to offer you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that I'm sure you'll have no doubt already considered. A weighing of options, if that sounds more appealing to you, dear."

"Son of a bitch," Jim growled.

"Shh." Galavan said, putting a finger up in front of Jim who bared his teeth like a dog and glared daggers at him.

"Care to know?" He said smoothly, smiling handsomely at her.

"Why ask when you already know the answer," Sylvia responded bitterly.

"Because I want to know. I want to hear it from your tongue."

"Fuck you."

"Well. I'd be a liar to say that I haven't thought about that."

"Fuck your sister then," Sylvia hissed. "I'd assumed you already have."

"By that logic, I could assume you and the detective could have."

The officers behind Galavan chuckled derisively.

"You're sick."

"Stop talking for _just_ a minute, would you. Let me tell you what I have in mind. If you don't like it, then we'll drop the whole idea. But I mean, honestly, after all, what else do you have to lose?"

"My fucking common sense. And if you had any, you'd fuck off. Now."

"My dear, you're not in any position to be making threats."

"I don't need a fucking gun to make a threat." She smiled maliciously. " _And_ keep it."

Jim glanced at her, a little taken aback.

Yes, he'd seen her angry before. He'd seen her fight and even claw a man's eyes out—but seeing her so murderous, so _violent._ That shook him. He wondered if Galavan had any sense himself, seeing as how the man simply grinned back at her like she wasn't threatening his life.

"You're a breath of _fire_ ," Galavan whispered, reaching out to her. "A desert flower…."

Jim struggled forward to make any attempt to shove Galavan away from Sylvia, but it was futile. Still, a burst of pride swelled inside him when Sylvia tried to take a bite out of Galavan's hand that dared to even attempt to caress her face.

"More like a desert cobra," Galavan snickered, smirking at her. (The officers laughed at that.) "I can see that you're not going to listen to reason."

"I'll listen to reason."

"Then you'd listen to what I have to say."

"A man like you isn't worth listening to."

"Gotham listens to me. And there is no man in this city like me, I assure you."

"If you think so," said Sylvia hatefully. "Look inside a toilet. I shit one out like you every fucking day."

Jim grinned at Sylvia, despite his situation. His sister had a potty mouth—no pun intended—and he normally despised it when she would talk herself into a bad situation. Considering they couldn't be any worse off, he had to hand it to her; she could spin a phrase and wipe the smile off Galavan's face: just as she did with her comment.

"So, the offer of freeing you, pardoning your husband," said Galavan calmly. "That doesn't appeal to you."

"Whatever you're promising, you won't keep it. And whatever you're trying to offer me, you can put it in a bottle and fuck yourself in the ass with it. Make sure it goes _all_ the way in, because it would take a while for a shit like you to feel anything shorter than a bottle neck."

"Colorful."

Sylvia grinned at him.

Galavan glanced at the officer, giving him the gesture—the signal that the officer was waiting for. The latter walked up and gagged Sylvia, putting what appeared to be a sock found in the ditch inside her mouth and before she could spit it out, the officer slapped a long piece of duct tape over it and cheeks.

It kept her from spitting it out—and it silenced her. Two things that Galavan had anticipated after the spew of filth that came out of her.

At this point, Jim had never wanted to hurt the man more.

"Your sister has a colorful vocabulary."

"I've never been prouder of her," Jim returned with a sarcastic smile.

"Wheel of fortune," Galavan continued, ignoring him. "It turns and turns, and—fortunately for me—it lands on the best of days."

"These cops. They work for you?"

Jim made a mental note to report these men to internal affairs, first chance he had. Assuming that chance was provided. He couldn't see a way out of this situation.

"Good men," Galavan commented. "Good men who can tell which way the wind is blowing. Now we have a very small window; I have places to be, you two have to die, but…I think I know you all too well by now, detective, and I know you" (he wiggled his finger at him) "have questions and want answers."

On cue and at the first opportunity, Jim questioned, "The monks. Do they work for you too?"

"For centuries," Galavan drawled. "The Order of the St. Dumas have protected my family. They have been a light in the dark world. Shall I tell you a secret?"

Sylvia let out a snarl from behind her gag; Jim glanced at her, but he turned his head to Galavan, both in anticipation and dread.

"Theodore Galavan is a _mask_. My name is Dumas, and my family built this city out of nothing. But we were betrayed, driven out— _erased_."

Jim couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed: "So that's what this is all about? Revenge?"

"No. This is about atonement. The ground that Gotham is built on is poisoned by the wrongs done to my forefathers. I will change that."

"By killing nine random people? You're insane."

"I can understand why you think so. Monks, robes, blood ritual sacrifices, and chants about prophesies. It's a bit too old-fashioned in my opinion, but…belief itself. That's what matters, Detective. _Purpose_. And not all the victims are random."

"Son of Gotham." Jim realized.

"Good-bye, James." Galavan said, still smiling. "I couldn't have done it without you."

He started to walk away; Jim started struggling against his restraints. Sylvia was already struggling, trying to free herself—if only just to pull the dreadful tasting old man sock out of her mouth. She was certain she'd puke up a lung when given the chance.

Galavan was just about to leave before he suddenly turned saying, "Ah what the hell! Cut him loose. And you know what…." Galavan approached with a fellow officer, stepping towards Sylvia. "I'll take pity on you this one last time, my dear."

He ripped the tape off her face, leaving one hell of a red imprint from the brusque removal. Immediately, Sylvia gagged, spitting the sock out, choking and coughing so much that Galavan stepped back in fear of being vomited on.

"You're a fucking prick." Sylvia coughed, glaring at him—tears had welled up in her eyes from coughing so much, her face so red that the tape's imprint was blending in with the rest of her.

"Maybe. But I just thought I'd let you scream to your heart's content."

Sylvia gave him a look with a mixture of both hatred and confusion. Scream for what, she wondered frantically.

The officer that approached Jim cut his zip ties, and Jim rubbed his wrists as the officer quickly stepped back.

"I'll give you a shot at the title," Galavan said happily. "I'm feeling pretty generous right now. Give it a shot, Jim. Save. Gotham."

Jim glanced at Sylvia, split between kicking Galavan's ass, or saving his sister. It seemed less likely that he'd be able to get the ties off her in time for her to escape, so having the pleasure of kicking Galavan's ass was a close second better.

"Fucking beat his face in," Sylvia growled.

Well, that's all the encouragement he needed.

He and Galavan circled, like an old time western. The only things missing were the whistle, a tumbleweed blowing needlessly between them in the dry wind, and the sound of a lone crow. They'd have themselves a western stand off—cowboys excluded.

Jim came at Galavan. In seconds, he was thrown back, kicked in the face, and on the ground. Sylvia and Jim stared at Galavan for a split second, taken aback.

Galavan wasn't a common fighter—he was _trained_.

"Hit him!" Sylvia shouted.

It was like recess all over again. But this time, Jim wasn't fifteen years old, trying to beat down a teenager who tried hitting on his little sister. Instead, this had deadly consequences, and they both would meet an unhappy end if Jim didn't land Galavan on his back.

A punch here—Galavan deflected. A punch there, he dodged it. Then, in less than two minutes flat, Galavan had landed five blows, bent Jim's arm, and landed two kicks on Jim's knee and back, putting him down the ground. And Galavan barely broke a sweat.

"Kill him," He said lazily, gesturing to Jim in the same manner. "Slowly."

"And her?" The officer that had escorted Sylvia now turned his attention on her.

"She's going to die…." Galavan drawled. "One way or another. I can't very well in good conscience tell _you_ how to do it, but…" He smirked dangerously at Sylvia, saying directly to her, "Terrible things happen to people in Gotham. Terrible, _unforgivable_ things."

Sylvia narrowed her eyes at him. Despite her fear, her quaking nerves, and her disgust and terror about what the officer in front of her was thinking of doing to her in the last few moments of her life, Sylvia dared not show any of it to Galavan.

The latter smiled one last time before he left. Just as he did, the two officers pulled out their batons and started beating Jim mercilessly—no holding back, no mercy.

"STOP IT!" Sylvia cried. "STOP!"

Sylvia bit back her plea when the officer staring her down like a piece of meat approached her, rubbing his hand over the crotch of his pants.

"Don't worry, sweetheart." He said with a toothy grin. "Unlike my friends beating your brother to death, I'm going to be gentle with you."

"Just so you know," Sylvia said, still twisting her wrists against the zip tie restraints. "The last two people who tried to rape me died by _my_ hand."

"I remember them," said the officer, still offering that simpering grin. "The burglar that tried to rape you in Belmonte's cafe—and Maroni's men that had the pleasure of fingering ya. Yeah," His grin widened when she stared at him. "Yeah, I remember. I couldn't help but think 'god _damn_ , those sons of bitches are fucking lucky.' But I think I'll go a different route with you."

"How so?"

"Curious? Well, since you asked. I'm gonna put my cock in your mouth—"

"I'll bite it off like I did the other one."

"Then we'll have to go through the back end. That's all right. I like it better that way." The officer said smoothly, palming himself through his pants.

He moved behind her.

And she heard the zipper release, slowly inch down. He rubbed his hands over hers before slowly rubbing them down the front of her breasts, grabbing and fondling them before lowering to her hips.

"You're a real piece of ass. I always wondered how a freak like Penguin ever got so lucky. Some people get all the breaks…."

Two gunshots echoed—the two officers beating Jim to death went down with a grunt and a groan before two more gunshots fired them dead. Sylvia and the pervert behind her glanced up to see Gabe and Oswald advancing.

Oswald was already in a temper, hearing Galavan had been let go. But his glare became murderous when he saw the officer groping his wife from behind her, the man's pants already down to his ankles.

"Gabe!"

"I've got it, boss—"

Oswald grabbed Gabe's gun, cocked it, and aimed it at the officer, who was smart enough to pull his pants up and stand behind Sylvia—she was his human shield.

"Vee…" Jim groaned from his back—if he hadn't been there prior to the beating, Sylvia would not have recognized him, covered in his own blood and grime.

Sylvia winced when the man behind her pulled out a switchblade. What an uncommon thing for a police officer to carry, she thought. Then again, he worked for Galavan, didn't he?

"One step, Penguin—and she's dead!" The officer shouted.

He held Sylvia's neck with one hand; the knife was on her shoulder, settling there but ready to pierce her carotid at any given time.

"Boss…." Gabe said uneasily.

"Shut up." Oswald snapped.

Sylvia leaned forward, into the man's hand. The officer didn't know what she was doing—that was until she snapped her neck back, head-butting him in the face. The knife slipped, slicing her shoulder, but he'd stumbled back, holding his nose.

In that second, Oswald pulled the trigger and the officer was motionless, falling to his knees, then forward on his face.

"Oh god, I think I'm gonna have a heart attack," Gabe gagged, holding his chest where his heart was located. "That was too—"

" _Get her_ , would you?" Oswald ordered harshly, glaring at him. "And get over it."

He turned his sights to Jim, getting to his level, interrogating him on Galavan's whereabouts—not that Jim could express anything. The man was barely conscious.

Gabe, on the other hand, quickly stepped past them and stopped to pick up the fallen knife before using it to cut Sylvia's restraints. She let out a sigh of relief, rubbing her wrists where the ties had cut into her skin. Gabe ripped the officer's jacket and used a piece to dab at the cut on her shoulder.

"I'm fine, I'm fine—Gabriel, I'm _fine_ ," She insisted, smiling though when he was persistent.

Oswald was on his own temper ride shouting at Jim, "WHERE'S GALAVAN! Jim! Where is he!"

And then he punched Jim in the face, then bitch slapped him after.

"Oswald!" Sylvia called, running to him. "Stop that—he doesn't know!"

"Where is he?" Oswald questioned murderously. "I'm going to _kill_ him."

"He's gone."

Oswald got to his feet: "What do you mean 'he's gone'?"

"He _left_ ," She emphasized sarcastically. "He told the officers to kill us—and he fucking drove away. And beating up my brother—well, beating him up _more—_ isn't going to change that."

Jim was motionless.

She glared at Oswald: "Oh my god, did you _kill_ him?"

"I didn't," He said breathlessly, gesturing down at Jim. "He's out cold."

"Well, whose fucking fault is that?"

Oswald rolled his eyes and turned to Gabe.

"Get him up. We'll bring him to Ed's place."

Gabe took a squat and picked Jim up, throwing him over his shoulder like a burlap sack of flour.

"He's pretty heavy," He complained as they piled into Gabe's vehicle. He said sweetly to Sylvia, "I'd rather pick you up and carry _you_ around."

"That's sweet," Sylvia commented, grinning broadly, getting into the driver's seat.

Oswald sat on the passenger side; Gabe sat behind him; Jim was…well, he was lying in the floorboard, his arm on the seat.

"Would you two stop talking?" Oswald said irritably, looking at Sylvia. "And just drive the damn car?"

"A 'please' would be nice."

"Please drive the fucking car."

Sylvia rolled her eyes: "Your bedside manner needs work, Oz."

Without another word, she put the car in 'drive' and started doing as he asked. On the way to Ed's apartment, Oswald glanced at her—his irritation diminished slightly, replacing it with a certain amount of concern.

"Are you all right?" He asked.

"I've been better," said Sylvia, shrugging.

"When we get to the apartment, I want to have a look at you."

"It's barely a scratch." She said, referring to the cut on her shoulder.

"That's obvious."

"What else are you talking about?"

"Just….in general."

Sylvia smirked at him, "Darling, are you worried I've been tainted?"

"No!" Oswald said quickly, and suddenly insulted. "Why on earth would you think—No, I'm just…concerned."

Sylvia grinned, looking at him before she turned her attention to the traffic. Oswald cleared his throat, looking out the other window, hoping the flushed red on his cheeks would disappear before they arrived at the apartment.

When they did, Ed opened the door. Only to be quickly surprised to see that Gabe and Sylvia carried in bruised and banged up Jim Gordon before laying him on his bed without a single word. Ed didn't offer any word of reproach. Oswald closed the door, glancing at Ed, who turned to him expectantly.

"Do I even want to know?"

"No." Sylvia, Gabe, and Oswald answered simultaneously.

Ed nodded: "Okie dokie. Does anyone want a drink?"

"I do." Gabe said immediately, holding his hand. "Got any beer?"

"Beer, no. I have wine—"

"That'll work."

"Al-righty then."

Ed took down three glasses, offering one to Sylvia, Oswald, and Gabe, who took it appreciatively. All the while, Oswald glanced uncertainly at Sylvia, who only returned it with an understanding expression.

It wasn't the first time they'd encountered this dilemma. Sylvia had been sexually assaulted for the third time since she and Oswald had been together, and the precedence wasn't unnoticed by either of them. In each circumstance, he was gone—one way or another. It never happened when he was around, but when he was gone, and unable to protect her, it always happened.

One way or another, a man always wanted Sylvia, and some of the fouler to-do thugs managed to find a way to get to her.

This time, Oswald was certain that had Gabe not been tracking Galavan's movements, they might have been too late.

Sylvia drank a few gulps from her glass and placed it in front of her. Between entering the apartment and drinking wine, Ed had moved from offering refills to placing a sewing kit between he and Sylvia, bandaging the cut, and sterilizing it.

Oswald had also noticed something else.

She and Ed, who had regularly talked, were stunningly silent. Maybe it was because Ed had to concentrate; the man could stitch a sweater in a matter of minutes, but he needed concentration to sterilize a cut? Maybe it was the entire situation itself—an injured, beaten up cop in his bed, Sylvia arriving with fresh cuts, and Oswald in his own catatonic state—that kept everyone's lips shut.

Sensing the tension, and not one for prolonged exposure to heavy situations, Sylvia smiled.

"What's so funny?" asked Ed.

"I just thought of a joke."

A sigh of relief from Gabe who asked, "What's the joke?"

"A ham sandwich walks into a bar and orders a beer. The bartender says 'sorry, we don't serve food here'."

Gabe gave a royal chuckle while Oswald and Ed glanced at each other—more or less amused, but not finding the joke as funny as Gabe did. But it certainly extracted the tension.

Ed gathered his first aid kit and smiled at Sylvia: "Finished."

"Thanks, Ed."

"Anytime." He returned, grinning. He left shortly to put up the first aid kit in the bathroom.

Gabe excused himself, saying he needed to keep a look out; and he quickly exited the apartment, waving good-bye. Sylvia waved back, then looked at Oswald, who'd been gazing at her with a muddled expression.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"Nothing."

"You know better than to tell me that. I can see it in your eyes."

Oswald took her hands in his, noticing the red welts along her wrists. He said nothing. Not at first. His main attention—and perhaps his only distraction—was gently massaging her wrists in his lap. Sylvia noticed it, knowing he wanted to say something about what happened.

"It's not your fault."

"It never is with you, is it?" Oswald muttered, his eyes still on her wrists.

"Well, it's not."

"Pigeon…."

"Hmm?"

"Do you ever get tired of this?"

"No. I always enjoy your aftercare."

Oswald blinked, looking from her hands to her eyes, and saw that she was grinning broadly at him. It was a dark joke, and he couldn't help but allow his own smile to tug at the corner of his mouth.

"You know what I mean."

"I do know what you mean." Sylvia said gently. "My life is consistently at risk. I grew up with a lawyer for a father, and I made waves on the streets as a kid, and I have a detective for a brother—well, according to the court and judge's eyes, and depending on Galavan's testimony—a _felon_ for a brother. So, my life has never _not_ been in danger. Probably will never not be in danger for the rest of my life, as a matter of fact."

"You've been assaulted more times than—" Oswald began but Sylvia removed her hand from his and placed a finger over his lips, shushing him.

He looked at her reproachfully.

"It happens to the best of us. The burglar, Mack, that sorry excuse for an officer—they're the people to blame. You, darling, are _not_ responsible."

"It doesn't lessen the degree to which you've suffered." Oswald countered.

"Well, all three of them are dead—either by your hand or mine. I think that's a fair trade."

Oswald looked at her with dark pools of adoration in his eyes: "What did I ever do to deserve you? How do you stay when you—"

"Because I know you're the one. Before marriage, before the engagement, before we started dating—I knew."

"How?"

Sylvia leaned in, kissed his cheek, and said lovingly, "There was only room enough for one person under your umbrella, and you chose to walk in the rain."

**Chapter 49: House, Wife, Picket Fence**

Sylvia sat on the edge of Ed's bed which now paid homage to a third guest by the name of Detective Gordon. Sylvia placed a cold wet washcloth on Jim's forehead. Whether it was the singing duo of Edward and Oswald that had stirred the detective to consciousness or the sudden cold wet rag on his skin, Jim awoke abruptly, sitting up straight, knocking Sylvia's hand out of the way.

"Well, hello, sunshine," Sylvia said, grinning broadly at him.

Jim glanced at her, rubbing his temples, then looked past her, seeing Oswald and Edward together by the piano. Hearing Sylvia's greeting, they turned their heads and both grinned with satisfaction.

"Well, well! Awake at last!" Oswald exclaimed happily, walking towards Jim. He put his hands in his pockets casually, saying, "How are you feeling?"

"Not so good," Jim answered hoarsely, turning his body horizontally, so his shoes touched the wooden floor. "Nygma?"

"Hi!" Ed greeted, leaning back.

"Long story," said Oswald, shrugging modestly. "He's a friend."

"'Friend'," repeated Jim suspiciously, gingerly touching the back of his head where Galavan had kicked him.

"You're welcome, by the way. No thanks needed, saving your life and all."

"Thanks. I guess."

"No, really." Oswald said, leaning forward with a twinkle in his eye. "No favors among family."

That made Jim grimace a little. It was the smallest reminder that whether he liked it or not, they were brothers—even if only by marriage. It was only at the mention of family that Jim swiftly glanced to his left to see Sylvia, still seated beside him.

"You got beat pretty bad," Oswald continued casually. "That Galavan is a _pistol_ , isn't he?"

"Yeah," Jim agreed sardonically, rubbing his jaw—yet another place that the former mayor had really got him. "He is."

As he said so, he glanced a peek at the exit behind him and started heading that way. Sylvia looked at Oswald incredulously, but the latter seemed more or less inclined to see him try to head out that door.

"Oh, you're more than welcome to go, Jim. _Desperate_ fugitive from the law, though you may be."

"'Fugitive'?" Jim repeated as though he'd never heard the word before. He looked at Sylvia for clarification.

She stood to her feet and walked into the kitchen; both Oswald and Jim followed her liquid movements with a gaze—Oswald's, lovingly; Jim's, steadily growing darker. She poured herself a glass of tea and came back to stand in front of Jim.

"Galavan. After you hit him in the courtroom, the media sunk their teeth into it—said you tried to kill him. The two officers that were found at the scene of your escape were shot to death," said Sylvia, glancing ironically at Oswald, who shrugged innocently, "and witnesses say you fled the scene with Penguin. There's a warrant on your head."

"I didn't do anything," Jim said, walking past Oswald and standing in front of Sylvia, leering at her.

"As is the case with you all the time. However, that's not the way your captain will see it. You step out of here, you're behind bars."

"How did this happen?"

"How do _you_ think it happened?" Sylvia questioned, crossing her arms. "It's the 'he said', 'she said' bit. You've interrogated criminals before—you should know how this works better than anyone."

"I've gotta talk to Barnes—" Jim began, turning on his heel to start towards the door.

Sylvia caught his arm, pulling him back, "Would you think for a moment, James? _Think_!"

Ed sat in the background, at his piano while still watching the scene before them. They certainly were an odd bunch, not the type you'd expect to all be sitting in a single room together. A notorious killer by the name of Penguin; his doting wife, Sylvia, whose club owner detail kept her own murders swept under the carpet; the illustrious Detective James Gordon who was out to get every two-bit criminal he could find and was now being framed for trumped up charges; and there was Ed, who had murdered his own girlfriend...an odd bunch indeed.

"Fascinating," Ed thought aloud, smirking at his own amusement.

"Jim," Oswald began calmly. "Think of this. Sit and consider your options. You and I share a bond in Theo Galavan. A passion if you will. If there ever was a time for us to work together…Now is that time."

Jim looked at Oswald for the longest moment, deeply considering his options—which were few to begin with.

He glanced at Sylvia who was just waiting for him to argue; she loved a good argument, didn't she? As though to prove that he was a wanted criminal, Sylvia strode past him to her purse that sat on the dining table, rummaged through it before grabbing the flyer and thrusting it into Jim's hands.

He looked down at it, staring at his own mug shot.

"'Armed and Dangerous'?" Jim read aloud, full of disbelief. Suddenly, he asked, "Where's Lee?"

"Lee is where Lee normally is—at work," answered Sylvia.

"Has she been interrogated on my behalf?"

"She's been interrogated alright. Barnes asked her if she knew where you were."

"What did she say?"

"She said she didn't know."

"How do _you_ know that?"

"Because she called _me_ ," Sylvia said, holding her phone up indicatively.

"Why would she call you?"

"Because I told her to. I always give your girlfriends my number in any case they need to talk some smack about you. Barbara used to call me _all. The. Time._ "

Jim grimaced at her before he looked at Oswald with finality.

"I know that look," Oswald said happily, pointing at him. "You want to take down Galavan just as badly as I do."

Jim didn't verbally agree; neither Sylvia nor Oswald expected that much out of him. But the look of resignation on his face was enough to show them which side he was on now.

"Did Barnes talk to _you_?" Jim questioned, striding towards Sylvia.

"No."

"Why not?"

"He knows I wouldn't give you up," She said, rolling her eyes.

"But Lee would?"

"That's between you, Barnes, and Lee." Sylvia raised her hands defensively. "I've proven myself over these past couple of years that there are only two people I would die before I gave up either of them: You, and Oz. And if you know anyone who thinks otherwise, I invite you to bring me their head."

No one challenged her.

Jim tossed the wanted flyer onto the counter cynically. He didn't want to believe that the GCPD would suddenly think he was a criminal—so easily, so quickly to jump to that conclusion. But then again—this was Gotham.

Ed was at work. This was a normality, to keep appearances. Not that Ed would be doing anything in the least where firearms were concerned. He wasn't _quite_ up to that point, although he did lament that he'd be missing out on all of the fun.

Meanwhile, Oswald called in his men while Sylvia welcomed Dagger and Chilly into the apartment. Both men were at least two feet taller than her and when they hugged her simultaneously, Sylvia could hardly be seen. Dagger was the burliest of the two, more bruiser quality while Chilly appeared hungrier—both for food and wealth. As the men told Sylvia how the businesses were going, Jim stood, watching his sister from the side lines.

His arms were crossed, his jaw clenched sternly. It was hard to imagine that his sister could have been caught up in all of this Underworld business, but watching her inform Dagger and Chilly about the location where of entry points were and how to take down these greatly trained monks inside the penthouse was almost enough to make Jim want to kick his sister in the head.

"She's quite the leader, isn't she?"

Jim sent Oswald a hard gaze as Oswald chose to stand beside him, hands in his pockets again. Confident, as ever.

"Yeah."

"You know, Jim," said Oswald quietly. "She has talked highly about you, being a great detective. Would it be so difficult for you to return the favor and admit that she's good at what she does?"

"She robs banks, mugs people, and countless other crimes—some of which I'm glad I don't know anything about. And you want me to be proud of that?"

"Proud of _her_."

"She works in the Underworld. I can't be proud of her for that. But I've never said she's not good at your kind of work. She's always had a knack for not upholding the law. It's something we're constantly fighting about."

" _No_ argument there," Oswald said, raising his eyebrows and suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

"You're only enabling her."

"I'd like to think I'm being supportive."

Jim looked at him pointedly; Oswald was perceptive of Jim's gruff side, not a stranger to the glare Jim would reserve especially for him ever since he found out that the man before him was dating his sister. This glare, on the other hand, looked less aggravated.

"I can understand your reservations about us," Oswald said cautiously. "But while she has been with me, she's never been—"

"—She's been in danger," Jim cut him off. "She's gotten hurt more than I count."

"It comes with the territory."

"It comes with being with someone like you."

"I should say the same thing," Oswald returned coolly, looking at him. He took a step towards Jim, who narrowed his eyes at him. "You know, we've never officially had a conversation about what all Sylvia has been through since our wedding ceremony, but I'd like to point out something to you, if I may. In no time since your sister and I have been together did she ever have her heart broken by yours truly. However, you" (Oswald pointed to Jim just to emphasize the point) "have broken her heart on _countless_ occasions."

Jim said darkly, "It comes with the territory."

" _Does_ it, though?" Oswald responded. It was his turn to frown. "You care for her just as I do, James. Between us, we share a bond—"

"Yeah, you mentioned Galavan several times."

"I'm not just talking about him."

Jim and Oswald watched Sylvia talk animatedly to both her men, and Gabe, who was obviously charmed by her war-leader skills. The conversation about severing heads went off on a tangent and all parties of the conference had described their favorite way to make a tasty blueberry cobbler.

Jim turned to Oswald pointedly, saying, "I've accepted the fact that she will never leave you."

"And I've long ago accepted the fact that she will consistently come to your aid." Oswald said cynically. "Personally, I think there have been more than a few occasions where I have insisted that she should just allow you to crash and burn—maybe, then, you would be able to open your eyes and see that you need her more than she needs you."

Jim kept his tone somewhat steady, although the ice could still be heard: "I couldn't help but think the same thing about you, Cobblepot."

Sylvia now was proposing to the gentlemen that they would eventually have to participate in a cobbler bake-off. Her voice seemed to bring both Oswald and Jim back to the surface of their own mutual dissatisfaction towards their treatment of Sylvia, and both men regarded one another with calm and civility.

"After all this time, you still don't approve?" Oswald asked nonchalantly.

Jim glanced at him.

"Oswald, I'll level with you. If there was any other person—anyone else—that she could have chosen and still live a better life, I would have wanted her to choose that person. However," (Oswald looked at him curiously) "I can't imagine there would be anyone else that treats her half as well as you do, so...I suppose I can't disapprove either."

Oswald beamed: "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Sylvia left the three men to debate their 'secret' ingredient to put into the best cobbler and walked towards them.

"They're all on board." She noticed the tension, and glanced between them precariously: "Is…Is everything all right?"

"Peachy," Oswald answered, a smile genuinely reaching his eyes. "So, what's the verdict?"

"Dagger's going to the armory to get a few more guns, and then we should be ready to go."

"His _name_ is Dagger?" Jim questioned, pointing his own eyes in the direction of said man.

"Of course not. That's his nickname."

"What's his real name?"

"You don't need to know, Officer."

Jim grinned at her: "Are you always this protective of your employees?"

"As long as they're just as protective of me—yes. We keep each other safe. Can you say the same thing about your own people?"

Jim didn't give her a response, but they both knew how fickle the police officers in his department could be. One fickle friend could lead to a single-handed catastrophe. And that didn't even level with _Gotham's_ standards for disasters.

While they waited for the rest of the cavalry to arrive, Jim, Sylvia, Gabe, and Oswald sat around in the living room area, which consisted of a sunk-in love seat and an armchair. Jim sat with a stiff back on the couch beside Gabe who was settled comfortably at the end with his feet on the coffee table. Oswald sat in the armchair, while Sylvia sat on the floor; her back was leaned against the armchair between Oswald's legs.

Oswald was preoccupied, playing with Sylvia's hair, gathering it into twists. Sylvia hummed a low song while flipping through a magazine. She slowly drank from a glass of wine, looking through the articles about celebrities dating other celebrities, and whose baby was not the father's, that sort of thing.

After a moment, Jim cleared his throat, making Sylvia and Oswald look up at him curiously.

"So..." Jim began. "How...uh...How long until the rest of the back-up comes?"

"Five or ten minutes, tops," Sylvia answered, her eyes flickering back to the magazine.

"Are all of your people coming?"

"Not all of them. I left the girls at the club."

"They're not coming?"

"No. I trust them with administrative duties before I trust them with a gun," Sylvia answered calmly. "Delilah knows how to shoot a BB gun at least—Brittany…. phew…forget about _that_ one ever learning how to hit a bulls-eye."

"How in the world do you find these people?"

"I don't. They find _me_."

"Why?"

"They know who I am, and how I operate. Some of them just want to get into show business. In case you haven't noticed, I have a certain _flair_ for song and dance," Sylvia said confidently. "I'm something of an icon these days."

Gabe chimed in, "Have you ever seen her dance? She's pretty good."

"I've seen more than enough of my fair share," Jim grumbled.

Sylvia snickered, "Don't let him get to you, Gabriel. He's just standoffish because he doesn't like seeing other people whistling at his sister."

"He's not the only one," Oswald muttered.

Sylvia leaned her head back, looking up at him: "I told you, sweetheart. It's only business. You know my heart always comes home to you."

"Well, as much as I treasure that, I prefer the _rest_ of you too." Oswald reassured slyly.

"You _do_ have the rest of me," She said, winking at him. "Mind and body. Heart and soul."

"Ugh," Jim muttered. "I'm going to step outside for some fresh air."

Sylvia smirked at Oswald, who returned the furtive smile as Jim moved and stepped out of the apartment.

"Oops. I think we made Detective Gordon uncomfortable." Sylvia whispered. "I better go after him."

She stood, but quickly moved forward to share a kiss with Oswald, who returned it eagerly. When it naturally broke, Sylvia caressed his cheek with a single stroke of her thumb then exited through the back door, standing alongside Jim, who glanced at her with a tad bit of annoyance.

"Did I manage to get under your skin?" She cooed, poking him playfully in the bicep.

Jim grimaced: "You know what you did."

"Can't a wife dote on her own husband from time to time?"

"I'd rather you didn't do it in front of me."

"Oh please. It was barely PG. If I wanted to get under your skin for _good_ , I would have sucked his dick in front of you." Sylvia said, tossing her hand to the side dismissively.

Jim made a sickening expression, turning a little green at the thought.

"I'd like to see you get a little handsy with Lee from time to time. Women like being shown a little PDA."

"I'm not that type of man."

"Well, even _I_ could have told you _that_."

"What the hell do you want from me, Vee?"

Sylvia blinked, and lowered her arms, bearing no defense. She said apologetically, "I'm only teasing."

"It's _not_ teasing."

"Then what do you call it?"

"I don't know what it is—you used to do this to me when we were kids," Jim said grumpily. "I'm sick of it."

"For your information, buddy, the only reason any of this came up was because Gabe mentioned I'm a good dancer. And, by the way, _I_ am."

"Yeah, you don't have to remind me. I've seen you on the catwalk, stripping—"

"I'm not even taking off my clothes! And for your fucking information, if I decided to become a stripper, I'd be making more money than you or any of your cop friends—because I would be good at it— _just so we're clear_!" She prodded him in the chest with her fingernail, and Jim looked at her indignantly.

"Did you come out here to comfort or to argue with me?"

"I'm not even sure anymore. To be honest, I just wanted to talk to you."

"We're not talking. We're arguing."

"Siblings argue."

"I doubt siblings argue this much."

"I'd say most siblings do," Sylvia debated. "What does it matter anyway?"

"I get tired of arguing with you."

"It's how we communicate. To be honest, I sometimes enjoy it."

Jim stared at her: "You _enjoy_ arguing with me?"

"Well, I think we have a good back-and-forth, you and me. Don't you think?"

Jim didn't respond. Instead, he looked at her for a long time before turning his head to briefly view their own shadows against the brick wall in front of them. They stood in an alley, so was the backyard view of Ed's apartment. There wasn't much to see at this point. The breeze brought in the smell of last night's rain; the clouds were slowly moving, full moon above; stars dotted the sky.

"Are you and Lee ever going to marry?" Sylvia asked.

Why do you ask that?" Jim asked. "Do you know something that I don't?"

"No. I don't know any more than you do—which is barely anything. But she's pretty much been there through thick and thin, and I like her. I think you should tie this one down before you lose her. Like Barbara."

"I didn't lose Barbara."

"No, you're right. She lost _herself_. Her parents were tyrants; the Ogre freed her, and she's the best candidate for Arkham. I figure her past few moments are a good indication of that," Sylvia said lightly. "Lee is a good woman; she seems pretty down-to-earth. A little too goody-goody for _my_ tastes, but aside from that: I think she's a good match for you."

"You're telling me you approve?"

"I'm saying that you could do a lot worse." Sylvia returned seriously. "She's a doctor. As many times as you get hurt, I figure having your own live-in doctor might make your top most wanted spouses list."

"I'm sure she'll be happy to hear that from you."

Sylvia shrugged, "My approval shouldn't matter. If you love her, then you should marry her."

"Do you believe that?"

"Look at me, Jim." Sylvia said softly. "Do you really think I would have married Oswald if your approval mattered to me? I mean, granted—you're my brother so your approval obviously _does_ matter to me, but that's not the end-all, be-all for marriage. Or for love."

He nodded, agreeing with that fact. Another moment passed as Jim crossed his arms over his chest. Sylvia leaned against the wet brick wall, looking up at the sky. It wasn't long before Sylvia reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Jim noticed and gave her a look.

"I didn't know you still smoke," Jim said curiously.

"Occasionally. Every now and again, I get the urge. Haven't really had a craving..."

"Only when you're around me?"

"Don't flatter yourself. You don't cause half of my stress," said Sylvia, grinning at him. "But I figure now while I have some time, waiting for the back-up, I might just have one."

"Does Oswald know?"

"Of course, he knows. Why wouldn't he?"

"Seems like something you'd keep a secret."

"He and I haven't any secrets."

"Don't give me that," said Jim sardonically. "Every couple has secrets."

The smog of Gotham seemed to have faded so that all that could be seen in the clear night sky were stars. So many that it would take years to count them all. Sylvia reached into her other pocket to pull out a lighter and made a scathing noise, placing the cigarette between her index and middle finger. Jim smirked when Sylvia resigned to put the cigarette back in its little box, looking defeated when she couldn't find said lighter, but otherwise no less anxious than she had been prior to the conversation about her old habit.

"Do you and Lee have secrets?" Sylvia questioned, looking at him pointedly.

"What?"

"You said all couples have secrets."

"So?"

" _So_ ," She emphasized, holding a hand out to him encouragingly. "I'm given to believe you're not an exception."

Jim bit the inside of his cheek, like he'd just caught himself in a lie. But rather, it was Jim's reaction for when he realized he'd found himself in a sticky truth. He and Barbara once made the promise of having no secrets; even he and Lee agreed to tell one another everything.

But Jim knew that this could never be a realistic expectation. Considering the hazard of his job, there would always be lies to be told, sometimes made up out of the blue. He looked at Sylvia, now, with a guilty smile.

"To answer your question," She said smoothly, obviously getting him off the hook. "Oswald and I don't have secrets. We may not always give each other the entirety of the situation, but where it counts: We are open and honest. As a well-oiled machine should be."

Skeptically, Jim replied, "You're telling me you know _everything_ there is to know about what he has in store for Gotham's future."

"I have an idea. And that's good enough for me."

"You believe Gotham should be his?"

"It's _already_ his." Sylvia replied coolly, leaning her back against the wall. "He is and should be King. He's worked harder for the empire than anyone else, and I doubt Gotham would be in any safer hands."

Jim rolled his eyes: "Why not say Gotham is yours. Is there no 'ours'?"

"The 'ours' is implied. I never wanted to rule Gotham's underworld."

"People are saying you're its Queen."

"Well, I am. I can and _do_ rule as Gotham's Underbelly's queen, mainly because I'm married to its builder."

"Why does it sound like you don't want that responsibility?"

"I didn't want it. I'm more comfortable working on the ground than in a monarchy."

"Does Oswald know that?"

"He knows. I never wanted to rule anything or manage anything because I was certain I would not be good at it. I'm too scatter-brained, too opinionated—"

"—Too hotheaded—"

"Yes," Sylvia quickly agreed before Jim could continue. "And it's precisely those reasons why I felt that I could not make it anywhere. But love is a powerful thing. Oswald instilled in me a confidence that I never knew I had. He encouraged me to sing and dance—starting at his club—and look at what I have been able to accomplish."

Jim looked at her curiously.

Sylvia said with a doting smile, "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him, James. And I owe my success to him. Tried to make it up to him several times. But all he wants from me is my unwavering loyalty and my trust."

Jim frowned.

Sylvia said softly, "And that's why there are no secrets between Oswald and me, James. We trust each other."

He seemed buried in his reverie, comparing her relationship with Oswald to that of his own with Lee. Whatever the results, they didn't seem too flattering. A moment passed before either of them spoke.

"What about children?" Sylvia asked curiously.

Jim startled: "What about them?"

"Do you want kids?"

"Are you having an existential crisis?"

"Well, shit, I'm not asking 'why are we here' and 'what's my purpose' kind of questions. It's a simple question. _Do_ you want children?" Sylvia asked plainly.

"That's not an easy answer."

"Isn't it?"

"Well, it's not. My job isn't safe. Even now, Lee isn't safe. And the money I make—"

"Jim, if you wait to have the money to have a kid, you'll never have children," Sylvia laughed. "Kids are inconvenient—no matter what financial cost."

"Well, do _you_ want children?"

Sylvia's laugh sobered: "My case is different."

"No, it's not. Your situation is pretty similar to mine."

"Sure."

"Sure what?"

"Sure, I want kids." Sylvia returned calmly. "I could imagine having a child. Son, daughter...hell, even twins."

"Twins don't run in the family."

"You never know. I could be the odd one out."

"Well, you're not wrong about that." Jim said, chuckling quietly to himself. He rubbed his arms as the wind picked up from a simple breeze to a chill. "If you were to have kids…what would you want?"

"A boy."

"Wow, no hesitation there!"

"Why hesitate?" Sylvia asked, shrugging. "What would _you_ want?"

Jim thought for a second. After, he said finally: "A girl."

"That would be nice. You could always call her 'Barbara'," chuckled Sylvia. "Maybe _that_ Barbara would turn out to be more stable."

"Vee—"

"You never know. She could be stable, smarter—for all you know, she could be a tough little cookie. One day, she'd end up fighting the criminals you've been trying to put away," Sylvia said with a sly smile. "That _would_ be your daughter—stubborn, but smart."

"You've thought a lot about this."

"About you having the house, the wife, and the picket fence? I don't think much on you having a family as much as _me_ having one."

"Have you and Cobblepot…. talked about this together?"

"A little. Having a child in this day and age is probably irresponsible at this point. But I'd like one. And he wouldn't mind having one too."

"If you don't mind me asking, _why_ haven't you had one yet?"

"Why haven't I gotten knocked up, you mean?"

"If you want to word it that crudely, sure."

"I have an IUD," Sylvia explained. "It's good for five years. I got it about the time I started working for Fish—didn't know what kind of stuff she'd have me do so I preferred to be more careful than careless."

"Sounds like a good idea."

"Jim."

"Hm?"

"Do you know what an IUD is?"

"Of course, I do!" Jim laughed, gesturing to her.

"Oh really. What is it?"

"Birth control…."

"Correct." Sylvia said, smirking. "You've impressed me."

"Well, for your information, Vee—we're not twelve anymore. I've known about that kind of thing longer than _you_ have."

"Yeah, because you _definitely_ needed it with that cheerleader chick." Sylvia uttered sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "She didn't give you the time of day, but you were _so_ sure you'd get into her knickers by summer."

"I'd have done it if you weren't butting your head into my business all the time."

Sylvia pushed Jim in the shoulder playfully, saying, "You _wanted_ me to tag along with you."

"If memory serves, I said you could come to the movies with us—not sit in _between_ us."

"Well, if it wasn't for me, you would have dated a twinkie, if my memory serves. She had a guy on the side, remember?"

"I do remember," He muttered resentfully.

"If only things were that difficult today." She chortled, rubbing her face tiredly.

"Yeah." Jim said, laughing a little. "It'd be a lot easier."

"No doubt."

A silent moment passed before either of them spoke.

"You do realize that you're a wanted man and you're pretty much standing in the open," Sylvia reminded.

"Got it." Jim said quickly, walking back inside.

**Chapter 50: Going After Galavan**

_Galavan was going to die tonight._

Those words had come with the feeling of both apprehension and relief. While she watched her and Oswald's men prepare for the event, Sylvia sat on the counter, clicking her knee-high boots together at the heel, listening to the sound with a comfort of knowing that Galavan's transgressions would gather full circle. She was prepared for the fight: she'd hold two guns in her hands, and if things got close and personal, she was ready to pull a K-bar from behind her back.

There was mixed conversation among Sylvia's and Oswald's men. Talk about ways to fillet a fish or a human being. Compared to the volume of her thoughts, their conversation was softer than a whisper. A body stood in front of her; she peered up to see Oswald there, holding a shotgun; the barrel balanced on the top of his right shoulder.

When their eyes met, it was as though Oswald could see through her. She was transparent to him.

"Are you okay?" He asked gently.

"Fine. A little nervous, but no more than usual."

Oswald placed the shotgun on the counter beside her. She was playing with her fingers, fidgeting at best. He noticed, taking her hands in his. His palms were warm; her fingers were like ice.

"Are you having second thoughts?"

"Of course not." Sylvia answered, smiling at him. "Galavan needs to die."

"I'm glad you think so."

"I'm just wondering what will happen when it's all said and done."

"The aftermath is of no consequence."

"To you, maybe."

Oswald looked at her curiously when she spoke. However, she had nothing to follow up on her passive comment. The laughter in the other room drew Oswald's attention briefly before he leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. She returned it, smiling at him genuinely when the kiss naturally broke.

"Are you going to kill him?" Sylvia asked.

"I planned on it."

"Another murder on the books. Your record just keeps expanding, doesn't it?"

"I'm detecting a jealous edge to your tone." Oswald said, grinning back at her.

"After everything that man has done to us—to you—I figure you're the better candidate to do the honors. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little jealous."

"I'd be more surprised if you weren't."

"Jim won't allow it, you know. He's thinking we're going in and finding Galavan so he can put him behind bars. He's tenacious as ever."

"I'm sure I could persuade him to our way of thinking."

"Of that, I have no doubt."

Oswald held her hands in his. He looked down at them, smiling to himself. He could think of many things to say to her, to put her at ease. But Sylvia wasn't looking for comfort. Her own comfort came with the idea of Galavan being put to death—be it by her hand or his. His reassurance did put her at ease, but he knew her too well. In order for her to be at her best and allow no one to stand in their way, Sylvia's anxiety was necessary. Her anxiety would push to the surface in the form of anger; and if there was anything Oswald could count on was the tenacity of her rage.

"I'm actually surprised Jim has come this far." Sylvia admitted quietly, glancing over to the corner where her brother was musing silently.

His thoughts were many miles away. Jim could hope for the best, expect the worst. The worst thing that could happen now was that Galavan somehow bested all of them in their endeavor and then managed to escape. The best thing to happen was seeing him put behind bars. Jim was certain that his way was the better way. Or maybe he'd fooled himself into thinking that's what Sylvia wanted too.

Jim approached Sylvia and Oswald in the kitchen, his eyes glancing at their close proximity before he turned to Sylvia, saying, "Where's the rest of your back-up?"

"They'll be here." Sylvia promised.

"That was twenty minutes ago."

"It's a twenty-minute drive."

"Galavan could have—"

" _Chill_." Sylvia interrupted him coolly. "He's a _man_ , not a demon—he's not going to randomly become the world's most powerful god in a single bound. If that was the case, I'm _sure_ he'd have done it by now. Twenty minutes isn't going to hurt anything or anyone."

There was a knock on the door.

Sylvia chuckled, "Who knows. Maybe that's him, right now. Maybe he's like Betelgeuse and we said his name too many times."

Oswald smirked at her when Jim rolled his eyes deeply to the back of his head. He couldn't take Sylvia's sarcastic remarks when he was on edge like this.

It was Gabe who answered the door. The person—above all people—that had come to their headquarters was someone Sylvia had least expected.

It was Lee.

Seeing her, Jim moved forward and away from Sylvia, who watched them with a little amusement. Seeing all of them bearing weapons of the like, Lee's eyes were wide as saucer plates.

"Lee." Jim said, taking her arm and shifting them towards the wall where they could speak more privately—but since it was such a small apartment, there was little privacy to be had.

Sylvia hopped off the counter, holding one Glock in her hand; the other was holstered in a sheath strapped to her right outer thigh. She walked into the main living room. Oswald followed her there.

"Jim, what are you _doing_?" Lee immediately started spawning questions. "Who are these people? _Sylvia_?"

Sylvia waved at her. Lee looked her over briefly: Sylvia wore all black: leggings, boots, V-neck blouse, and even had her hair tied up a ponytail.

Jim didn't give her much time to ask another question. Instead, he said, "I need to get you out of town. Penguin has a reliable man that can take you upstate. Things are going to be a little unsettled here for a while."

Lee turned from Sylvia to Jim, saying incredulously, " _Unsettled_?"

To help answer her question, Oswald said, "We're going to take down Galavan."

Well, obviously that was _not_ what Lee wanted to hear. Instead of being reassured, Lee's eyes widened as she looked at Jim with disbelief.

"Are you out of your _mind_?"

"Ms. Thompkins, I can assure you—" Oswald began, but Jim lifted a hand to silence him politely.

"He has to be stopped, Lee." Jim told her.

"By _you_?" Lee retorted. "And _these_ people?"

"He has to be stopped."

"You keep trying to kill yourself. Have I got you all wrong? Are you just crazy?"

"Of course not."

"You're on the run from the law. You want to attack the mayor with the help of a depraved sociopath. That's not crazy?"

Oswald said pointedly, "I can _hear_ you."

"Stop talking," She snapped, shutting him down. "Jim, don't do this. Let's get out of town together. I don't care what you've done already, or what you have to leave undone. Let's just go."

"I can't."

"Jim, please."

"I can't. I can't let Galavan win this way."

"I'm pregnant."

Oswald sighed deeply, looking up at the ceiling; Jim looked shocked, and Sylvia stared at Lee as though she'd just grown a second head from her left shoulder.

Honestly, if there had been any other time to tell him that he was the father, Lee had chosen one hell of a time to do so. It wasn't hard for Jim to realize what he had to do next. He turned to Sylvia, who smiled knowingly.

After a long and seemingly drawn out conversation between himself and his sister, they'd come to the consensus that in order to keep Lee and the unborn baby safe, Jim would leave with her. Out of town, out of Gotham.

Jim spoke with Oswald in low tones, arranging safe passage out of Gotham while Lee and Sylvia stood outside the apartment. Lee crossed her arms tightly around herself; the wind was chilling. The car was parked on the curb in front of them. For a moment, there was silence.

Lee looked at Sylvia for a long time. Sylvia took notice and met her gaze.

"I can hear the gears in your brain turning," She told her calmly. "What's on your mind?"

"What _isn't_ on my mind is more like it."

"You've been staring at me like that for the past half-hour."

"Staring at you like what?"

"With that look of betrayal," Sylvia explained, pointing to Lee's face. "Just so you know, _I_ didn't persuade Jim to go after Galavan. He was going to do that with or without my help."

"So, you're going after the mayor, still?"

"I blame him for a lot of the terrible things that have happened to me. Maybe he didn't cause them directly, but he's responsible for a great deal of my misery. He deserves to die."

"Galavan isn't your responsibility. And it's not Jim's."

"You think Jim would have done something he shouldn't have?"

"I think he might."

"What if I could ensure that he won't?" Sylvia offered. "Even if he came with us—what if I made sure he didn't do anything that would jeopardize your future—for you, for him, or for your baby?"

"You mean killing Galavan?" Lee said quietly, looking at her incredulously. "No one deserves to die more than he, but that's—"

Sylvia turned to her completely: "Lee, do you even know what I've done? I've killed people. I've tortured people. People who have done a lot less than what Galavan has done. He's hurt my family—he killed my mother-in-law; put trumped up charges against my kin, making him a fugitive, and he nearly had me killed. Not to mention he turned the entire city against my husband. Now if that doesn't warrant enough to put Galavan to death, I don't know what could."

"The legal system will take care of it," Lee said uncertainly.

"You're not talking to Jim, remember? You're talking to _me_. And _I_ don't care about the legal system."

"And what if you die tonight? You're going to be an aunt. Does that mean nothing to you?"

"Of course, it means something. But what's the point of raising a child if Galavan's the mayor?"

"You're impossible to talk to."

"It's a family trait, I'm afraid."

At this, Lee smiled.

Jim and Oswald came out of the building. Both appeared resigned to the facts. Jim hugged Sylvia, who hugged him back. Sylvia gave Lee a side-hug—considering they'd engaged in something of a debate before the men had come out...still, Sylvia didn't want them to leave with bitter feelings between them.

"Good luck, old friend," Oswald said, shaking Jim's hand. "See you around."

"I hope not."

"We're family. The holidays are just around the corner. I'm sure we will bump into each other again."

"Good-bye, Penguin." Jim said, trying his best to ignore that last statement.

Oswald said to Lee, "Good-bye, Ms. Thompkins. Please don't think too badly of me. We are what we are." He held out his hand to her and she shook it gingerly.

"That's true. Good-bye, Mr. Cobblepot."

Oswald smiled at her, then he turned to leave, glancing at Sylvia, who said softly, "I'll be just a minute."

He kissed her briefly on the cheek before Gabe opened the door and they both walked back inside. Sylvia watched the door close and then turned to Jim and Lee, both of whom were watching her expectantly.

"Are you _sure_ you don't want to come?" Sylvia asked.

"Vee—"

"I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to _her_."

Lee gasped, "You know where I stand, Sylvia!"

"I know," Sylvia returned, grinning shamelessly. "I just wanted to see what you'd say." She added seriously, "For what it's worth, I'm happy you're safe and sound. You'll tell me when you find out if it's a boy or a girl?"

"I'll send a letter."

"Don't be shy—send me a text. You have my number."

Lee swiftly got into the car, sitting in the passenger seat. Jim sat in the driver's, looking up at Sylvia, who grinned at him, still. She turned to leave, but just as she was about to head back inside, a car's tires screeched on the curb and shot towards the apartment, cutting onto the sidewalk before coming to an abrupt halt.

Harvey Bullock, Alfred Pennyworth, and a man whose name Sylvia didn't know quickly got out of the car. Sylvia strode towards them. Recognizing them, Jim glanced at Lee warily, getting out to meet them.

"Alfred?" Jim greeted, surprised.

"Gordon, we have a problem." Alfred said breathlessly. "It's Galavan. He has Master Wayne."

Sylvia said incredulously, "What does he want with Bruce?"

Jim hissed, "Son of Gotham."

Sylvia and Alfred glanced at Jim, both saying, "Excuse me?"

"He kidnapped him." Alfred added. "When he didn't come home, I went to the penthouse."

Jim opened his mouth to ask a follow up question, but Harvey intervened, explaining that Bruce had been missing for twelve hours; shortly before that, Alfred had gotten into a scuffle with Tabitha, earning himself a stabbing in the abdomen, and he had hid in a trash dump before scrambling to get back to the city. He was apprehended by the GCPD but was relinquished shortly after.

"You've had quite the day, haven't you?" Sylvia said, smirking at Alfred.

"Does _Barnes_ know about any of this?" Jim questioned.

"Barnes knows," said the unnamed man.

"Who are _you_?" Sylvia asked, looking at him.

"I might ask the same question." He returned politely.

Harvey made swift introductions: "Liv, this is Lucius Fox. Fox, this is Sylvia."

"Gordon's sister." Fox recalled, smiling broadly at her. He held out his hand; Sylvia shook it. "Quite the grip you have there, Miss Gordon."

Harvey leaned in, saying, "Actually, she's married."

"To whom?"

"To Penguin," Jim answered for Harvey.

Fox glanced between Jim and Sylvia saying, "I bet the holidays get pretty eventful for your family, doesn't it, Detective? Just out of curiosity, Mrs. Cobblepot."

"Hm?"

"Why do people call you 'Liv'? That's a nickname for 'Olivia'."

"Why do people call Mercedes Mooney 'Fish'?" She answered rhetorically. When Harvey, Fox, Alfred, and Jim glanced at her uncertainly, she said, "It's just a nice name. I like 'Liv'. Addendum: Only my friends call me that, so keep that in mind."

"Fair enough," Fox recanted, holding his hands up in surrender.

"Could we skip the chatter, and get to work?" Alfred butted in, impatient. "Who knows what Galavan is intending to do with Bruce."

Jim nodded: "Give me a second."

Sylvia watched Jim quickly bound back to the car and speak to Lee who looked crestfallen. She seemed to already know what was going to happen before Jim talked to her. As a point, Sylvia turned to Fox, smiling at him.

"So, what do _you_ do?" She asked.

"I mainly work at Wayne Enterprises."

"Are you corrupted too?"

"I'd say I'm the least corruptible man in Wayne Enterprises." Fox returned honestly. "But I can certainly see why you would think so."

Sylvia saw Alfred looking a little more impatient, so she said, "Don't worry, Alfred. We'll find Bruce. How's the stabbing?"

"Doing better every hour," Alfred returned callously.

"How was fighting Tabitha?"

"Bit of a tasty fighter."

"Well, I'm glad you're impressed." Sylvia returned, rolling her eyes. "If you think she's good, maybe you and I can go for a round. You'd be amazed."

Alfred noticed her confidence levels were off the charts.

As though forgetting his sole purpose for why he'd come to find Jim to begin with, he asked, "Got some training under your belt, have you?"

Sylvia smirked: "You have _no_ idea."

Alfred smiled a little at that. Jim returned to them, and Lee started driving away. Sylvia noticed the mixed expression on her brother's face, like he was thankful to be here but regretting every decision he'd made up to this point.

"She'll be fine." Sylvia said, patting his shoulder.

"Yeah? I find that hard to believe."

"Did she say she was leaving you?"

"No."

"Then she'll be fine," said Sylvia as she walked back into the apartment.

Alfred glanced at Jim curiously, asking, "Did that sister of yours ever serve in the military?"

"No. Why?"

"She has the confidence of an Officer."

"She was trained by Victor Zsasz in marksmanship, and by a former CIA agent in hand-to-hand combat," Jim answered, opening the door for the others for their entry. "If I had that kind of training, I'd be pretty confident too."

"Is she any good?" Alfred asked, stepping inside.

"I'm not sure, but I'm not too eager to find out personally." Jim admitted.

**Chapter 51: Galavan Dies**

Jim placed a pile of bullet proof vests on the table. Alfred, Harvey, Jim, Oswald, Gabe, Dagger, and Chilly put one over their heads. Sylvia picked one up, looking at Jim pointedly.

"Bullet proof vests," She commented, smirking at him. "What's next? An armored tank?"

"Couldn't sneak it past Barnes," Harvey uttered. "Otherwise, I would have gotten one. Just for you, Liv."

"How sweet."

She put the vest over her head, tied the back of it behind her and then brushed the hair that had fallen out of her ponytail from her eyes.

"Everyone got a gun?" Jim asked. "Vee?"

"I have _two_. If you're willing to give me a third, I'll take it."

"Honestly, I'd rather you not have _any_ weapons."

"Why? 'Fraid I might off the bastard before you get a chance to read Galavan his rights? The fucker should know it by now. The only one he doesn't know is his right to remain silent. Fucker talks too much."

"You talk your own fair share, Muffin." Alfred pointed out.

"Don't call me pet names, Alfred. We're not that close just yet." Sylvia said half-seriously. "You're more than welcome to call me 'Liv', seeing that you and I are starting to meet each other in the oddest of locations."

"Everybody set? Alright," said Jim, cocking his Glock. "Let's go."

"Wait a minute," Harvey interjected quickly. "What's the plan?"

"Go in, get Galavan, put a gun in his mouth until he gives up Bruce."

Oswald glanced at Jim, saying, "Then after, I kill him slowly."

Sylvia smirked at him, but Jim debated: "No. I arrest him, put him behind bars."

Obviously, Oswald disagreed: "What? Are you nuts? After everything he's done?"

"Gotham needs to know who he is."

"Gotham needs him _dead_!"

Jim let out a snarl, like he'd gone over this a countless time with his brother-in-law. If there was ever a dysfunctional family moment, this was definitely counted as one of them. A few more minutes passed where Oswald and Jim argued about what would be done with Galavan. Finally, knowing the only person who would be able to break this debacle, Jim turned to Sylvia.

"What do you propose we do?"

"You know exactly what I'm proposing." Sylvia mused. "So, don't think I'm going to be your tie-breaker."

"Vee, you know what needs to happen."

"I _know_ what needs to happen. But that's not what is _going_ to happen. Galavan _deserves_ to die. Seeing him rotting in prison was going to be a real treat before but look what happened. It's just like what Oswald said—after everything he's done, Galavan _must_ die."

"Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit," Alfred said impatiently. "Can we first get in there and _then_ decide what to do?"

"Which begs the question," said Fox, drawing everyone's eyes to him. "How are you even going to get in? This is a plan designed to fail, unless—"

" _I know a way in."_

Sylvia looked at the window where a charming young lady sat in under the pane. Selina Kyle.

Confused, Fox looked at Harvey: "Who is _she_?"

"Fox, that's Cat. Cat, Fox."

"Hey, Mrs. P." Selina greeted Sylvia as she slid inside the apartment, smirking at her. "How you been?"

"Great. You?"

"Meh."

"Cat," Jim said slowly, glancing between her and his sister. " _Do_ you know a way into the penthouse?"

"Yeah. I know a way in, _Gordon_."

Sylvia snickered at Selina's response, to which Jim turned to her indignantly.

"Why does she seem happier to see you than she is me?"

"Well, you let her friend get fried." Sylvia reminded. "I, on the other hand, haven't done shit. Selina," (the young girl glanced at her expectantly) "What's your plan for getting inside that building?"

"I'll leave it as a surprise."

"I don't like surprises."

"It's a _good_ surprise." Selina promised, wrinkling her nose playfully. "So, what do you say?"

"How do we know you've not already stitched us up," Alfred said, earning a glare from her. "You switch sides often enough. How do we know you're not going to turn on us?"

"How do I know you're not a Martian in a rubber suit?"

"I trust her." Jim acknowledge aloud. Selina grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Grab a vest."

She grabbed one, hoisted it over her head. Sylvia removed the Glock from the holster on her outer thigh and tossed it to Selina, who caught it last-minute. Jim glanced at the two of them, wondering just how many times they'd conversed in the past…. then again, Selina and Sylvia were so much alike, Jim would have thought it weird if they didn't get along.

"Are you telling me," said Fox slowly, "that there is no plan B due to the great possibility of failure, gentlemen...and ladies?"

"Au contraire, Mr. Fox," Oswald returned, looking at him with a sarcastic smile. "Failure is _not_ an option."

Fox glanced at Jim for a second opinion.

"What _he_ said."

Fox recanted: "As you like. However, I'm not the best shot with a weapon. I'd be more of a hindrance than of help."

"I have a separate task for you, then." Jim offered, a hard smile on his face. "Would you do something for me?"

"Sure thing."

"Tell Barnes where we are."

"Excuse me?"

"In any case," Jim said, glancing cautiously at Sylvia, "things go South and we are outnumbered and outgunned, we'll need all the back-up we can get. With my head on the chopping block, my location will bring Barnes and the rest of the GCPD swarming."

"Like a nest of wasps," Sylvia added, earning a hard smile from Harvey.

Fox said carefully, "So, you _want_ me to sell you out?"

"Precisely. Why, was I not clear?"

"No, you were _very_ clear. I just wanted to make certain that we weren't misunderstanding one another." Fox replied, looking at Jim as though the officer might have lost one too many screws on the way to this point.

"Are we all set?" Sylvia asked, ignoring Fox. "I'm getting a little antsy over here."

"She's not the only one," Alfred chimed in.

"Fine. Let's go." Jim said, rallying everyone forward.

They all gathered outside, forming something of a chorus line as they marched towards the penthouse. The night sky had cleared of clouds completely, giving way to the many stars that dotted the blackness and the full moon. Sylvia glanced up at the clouds as she strode next to Harvey and Alfred.

"What exactly do you plan on doing once we get in there?" Harvey asked Sylvia, glancing at her precariously.

"Save Bruce."

Alfred quirked an eyebrow up at her, surprised that she didn't have only murder on the brain, compared to her significant other.

"Really?" Alfred asked incredulously.

"Surprised, are you? Bruce is in trouble. For now, he's my only concern. Once we get him to safety, the rest will fall into place."

"And if we get there too late?" Harvey questioned.

"Then I'll be sure to cut off Galavan's head and plant it clear on a pike." Sylvia returned.

"Why do I get the feeling that's your intention as a whole?" Alfred asked.

"Well, you're not wrong."

Harvey snickered, "I've missed you, Liv."

They stopped behind the penthouse where the garage door would lead them to the back, and up the stairwells. They'd be able to sneak into the building itself, and then once they came to the right floor, a surprise attack would put them in good odds of besting the mayor. Selina drifted inside where she knew the building was weakest.

"Mayors are almost as bad as the Commissioners," Harvey muttered breathlessly.

"Why are you panting already?" Sylvia asked. "Out of shape, huh?"

"Well, not all of us can be fit as a fiddle, _can we_ , Liv?"

"You need a physical trainer, Bullock."

"You need to pipe down."

Jim sighed, "Would you both be a little quieter?"

"The monks are _inside_ , James," Sylvia reminded. "None of them are out here. Stop being so paranoid."

"You make me nervous."

"I make _you_ nervous. That's rich."

"Are you arguing to get a rise out of me?" Jim questioned, glancing behind him to see Sylvia grinning mischievously at him.

"I admit, it's pretty fun."

Oswald muttered, "What's taking her so long?"

"Give her more time." Jim pressed.

"He's got a point, you know," Alfred said suspiciously. "She's been in there for a while."

"You guys have no faith," Sylvia said with a roll of her eyes.

At that moment, the door reeled upwards revealing a slightly out-of-breath Selina, who grinned at them.

"Come on in." She said, gesturing behind her.

Then she led the entire group on a manhunt. Starting through the parking lot, then up the stairs. The many, many, many flights of stairs. Sylvia took one look at the several flights before muttering "Fuck _this_ " and sheathed her gun in the holster on her thigh. She rubbed her hands together and then stepped onto the banister.

Everyone's mouth, including Selina, Oswald, and Alfred's, dropped a little when she started running up the banister _itself_ with perfect footing.

"Oh, _shit_ …." Gabe muttered as his eyes widened.

"Go, go, go, go—" Jim insisted, running up the stairs to follow after his sister, who'd taken the lead.

"How the hell is she _doing_ that?" Harvey exclaimed, glancing up to see Sylvia running to the end of a banister; once she'd reached the end, she jumped from one end of the upper level banister to the other, climbing onto it, running the length before leaping over to the next level like before. "She's like a goddamn monkey!"

Up the stairs, Alfred was nearly out of breath; Harvey was wheezing. He leaned over the banister, looking up and crying, "Oh for Pete's sake!"

Selina practiced her breathing, keeping time with her running cadence. A stair climber itself was less tasking than the flights of steps themselves.

"I'm gonna be able to drink three packs of beer after this—and _still_ lose weight," Harvey wheezed, letting out a silent, painful laugh after.

In ascending order, it was Sylvia at the lead; Jim and Alfred were directly behind her on the steps. Oswald was leading in fourth while Gabe, Dagger, and Chilly were mentally slapping themselves for not joining in Sylvia's physical regimen when they had the chance and had been offered.

" **Death to the Son of Gotham. Death to the Son of Gotham. Death to the Son of Gotham. Death to the Son of Gotham**."

The chant rang loud as though voiced by the Tibetan men's chorus.

"What the hell is _that_?" Harvey groaned, looking up from where the noise was generating then to Jim for an answer.

"I don't know. But it can't be good. Vee—which floor is it coming from!"

" _Twentieth_!" Sylvia shouted, leaping up the last banister. She nearly missed it, whimpering when her feet missed the ground and dangled. "Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck— _shit_..."

" _Vee!"_

"I'm fine!" Sylvia squeaked. "I'm fine! Just gotta…I just have to get my bearing… _damn it…_ "

Her legs had been the foundation of her physical prowess; she was still working on her upper body strength. In a sense, she was more fit than the rest of the group, but her arms were starting to feel like jelly. She could not pull herself up.

"Vee!?"

" _I'm good_!" Sylvia said, looking through the banister rails. She was holding on for dear life. "Whenever you get the moment, though, some help would be great!"

Oswald glanced up to see Sylvia's boots dangling and he grumbled under his breath. He and Jim were the first to reach her; both of them dropped their guns on the floor and held out their hand over the railing. Noticing they'd done the same thing, they glanced curiously at one another but ignored the sudden movement in an effort to bring over their loved one. Sylvia held onto the rail but extended her right hand; Jim took it quickly, grabbing her wrist and as he pulled her up, grunting in the process, Oswald grabbed her other hand.

Together, they pulled her up. Sylvia's feet found the floor with the rest of the group; and she smiled in relief.

"Are you alright?" Jim asked, while Oswald said, "Are you okay?"

Breathlessly, Sylvia said, "I'm good, thanks. Just lost my footing."

They both touched her, noticing that she was a little shaky but otherwise, she was fine. They picked up their respective weapons; once the rest of the group (aside from Harvey who had asked for a brief intermission) met them on the level, they advanced until the sound of chanting became almost unbearable.

Then, there was nothing.

Jim and Alfred exchanged worried glances. Sylvia withdrew her holstered Glock, cocked it, and then moved forward with the rest of them to the largest door they could find and then barged inside. Meeting them head on were at least twenty people, monks all dressed in brown robes—daggers raised.

Bruce Wayne, dressed in a white robe, was tied to a pillar. Like he would be burned at the stake for being a witch.

Jim, Alfred, and Selina on the left. Sylvia, Dagger, and Chilly in the middle. Oswald, Gabe, and two others belonging to him stood on the right.

All the guns were cocked.

The chief monk—or at least whom Sylvia could define as being the leader of the pack—took one look at all of them and shouted, "SACRILEGE!"

And that caused all the monks in the room to move as one unit, stepping forward, ready to die for their cause. If they wanted to die—so be it.

Bullets flew around the room. Shouting dulled to the point no one knew what the other person was saying. Twice, Alfred saved Jim, shooting two monks who had thought to sneak up on the officer while he dealt with two other monks. When they came too close into contact, guns were forgotten—Jim and Alfred, well versed in hand-to-hand combat, threw their punches, bringing the monks to them by the shoulders and kneeing them square in the face, knocking them out and serving them useless for the rest of the fight.

Sylvia drew attention from two monks; their daggers raised over their heads as they sprung to attack. Dagger and Chilly barreled forward, knocking Sylvia out of the way and putting six bullets into each robed attacker. Blood splattered their clothes. Sylvia picked herself up, thanking them quickly before she fired a shot into a monk that had tried sneaking up on Oswald—then killing another who had the drop on Jim.

One monk threw himself onto Jim, pushing the detective on his back. Jim growled, trying to throw him off. The monk's partner tackled, grabbing Jim's hands so the other could stab him. Seeing her brother's predicament, Sylvia leapt forward, grabbing the monk that straddled Jim and pulling him off.

"Get off my brother, you sicko!" Sylvia shouted, bringing him down onto the ground with her. She wrapped her legs around the monk's center, then twisted his head, snapping it, and killing him.

"All right! Woo!" Selina cheered.

Sylvia stood, grinning at her. Of the surviving cult, one monk started forward, grabbing Selina's arm. Selina grunted when her back hit the wall.

"Oh no, you don't!" Alfred shouted. He shot the monk in the back.

Then Sylvia stabbed the Monk with his own dagger—just for principle.

"Fuck, how many of you are there!" Gabe exclaimed as ten more sprinted from behind closed doors and started forward with the same daggers.

Sylvia gasped when one of them grabbed her by the hair, pulling her ponytail out. He brought her down on her knees. Sylvia knelt down intentionally, only to take him by the waist and throw him over her head so now he lied on his back, eyes wide with shock.

" _Kill_ him!" Sylvia screamed.

Dagger cocked the gun, strode over to Sylvia, and with a single round, shot the man in the forehead.

One monk leapt forward—like a flying monkey—and with three others, they cornered Oswald and Gabe. Their guns clicked—the worst sound a gun could make. One monk flipped his dagger, the blade shining in the light. Sylvia sprinted forward, and with a high kick, Sylvia knocked him flat on his stomach where she straddled his backside, took hold of his head, and then broke his neck.

The second monk received a justifiable kick between the legs, and Sylvia finished him off with stabbing both of his eyes with another Monk's dagger.

The last Monk blinked, regretting the decision to go after Penguin. Sylvia first hit him in the side of his kneecaps—hard enough that both fractured, sending him to the ground. Like the other one, Sylvia straddled his back side, and twisted his head so hard that the Monk's pained expression was facing directly at her.

Sylvia glanced up at Oswald who was breathless, watching her kill three men in less than two minutes.

"Holy shit." Gabe muttered, looking equally amazed and fearful at the same time.

And that was the end of the Monks. All of it happened in slow motion but the entirety of the fight had taken less than five minutes.

Sylvia looked at Oswald imploringly, and whispered, " _Go_."

Oswald nodded in understanding. He tilted his head sharply for Gabe to follow him; they'd take a different corridor to find Galavan. Dagger and Chilly received Sylvia's directing gaze; obediently, they followed Oswald out the door.

The bodies of robed figures were piled on the ground. All except for one. The Chief Monk who held a single dagger in his hand, the one that had slain his ancestors, stared angrily at the group.

"Drop the knife, old man. It's over." Jim ordered—that inner cop coming out.

"So, it would seem." Then the Monk let out a battle cry, took an impressive leap forward, then a gunshot rung in Sylvia's ears.

The monk fell down, dead.

Sylvia turned irritably to see Harvey holding up his gun, having fired off the round.

"Sorry, Partner. That was a _lot_ of stairs." Harvey said, smiling in spite of himself.

Alfred, Selina, and Jim hurried forward, tying off Bruce's restraints and allowing him to move about. Alfred held him close, thanking god they had come in time. Jim looked around the room, then to Sylvia.

"Where's Galavan?"

"How should I know."

"Where's Penguin?"

Sylvia smiled knowingly. Jim glared at her.

"I told you Galavan needs to be brought to trial!" He shouted.

"And he will— _if_ you get to him in time." Sylvia retaliated, cracking her knuckles together.

"You told Penguin to go on ahead, didn't you?"

"Well, you were going to stop Oswald from doing what needs to be done. I couldn't allow that."

"I told you the plan."

"You told me _your_ plan," Sylvia retorted, stepping forward challengingly. "Now, I'm telling you _mine_. He's going to die—is all. There's nothing you can do to keep that from happening."

"That isn't going to happen."

"If you keep arguing like this with me, it's inevitable."

"Galavan could have more booby traps in this place." Jim said cautiously, although he was trying his hardest not to berate his sister further on her lack of judgement and morality. "Oswald might get himself into harm's way."

"Then we best get a move on." Sylvia said, moving past him. She shoved her shoulder against his, proving that their argument was not yet over.

Jim glanced at Alfred, who nodded for him to continue.

"Be leery of that one," Alfred warned.

"I know that better than anyone," Jim muttered tiredly, rubbing his head as he pushed on forward.

Jim grabbed Sylvia's arm when he caught up to her halfway down the hall.

He snarled, "You're making a big mistake."

"I'm pretty sure I'm not." Sylvia mused, smirking at him despite Jim's furious expression. "You want to know what I think? I think you _want_ Galavan dead—just as much as Oswald and me. When it comes down to it, you want to see him die too."

"I can't allow that to happen."

"Yeah, yeah, because you're a cop. I get it."

Jim grabbed Sylvia's shoulder and slammed her back into a wall. She grunted then glared at him.

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

"Galavan is going to stand trial. Gotham needs to see what kind of a man he is."

"They can do the same thing at his funeral, you know."

"Are you so blinded by rage that you can't see what this means if you kill him?"

"Are you telling me you're going to risk it again? To see Galavan try to be put in jail again, and then him be released only a few months later—because that's what's going to happen! And then what? Then you've got your son or daughter to look after, to make sure they're okay, to be sure that Galavan won't go after them too! Are you really going to put your family through all of that? To have yourself and Lee looking over your shoulders all the time like you and I have had to do our entire lives? _Think_!"

"Vee—"

"Jim, stop _arguing_ with me! You know you're not going to get anywhere. Plus, we still need to _catch_ Galavan if you want to see him face any justice—legal or not. So please, can we?"

Jim stepped back from her, allowing Sylvia to gain her footing. They walked down the corridor. Sylvia could practically hear Jim's frustration bubbling around him.

After a second, there was movement. Jim held out his hand, a motion for her to stop walking. She followed it. He glanced at her, knowing she would be hearing the same thing. Sylvia nodded, pointing towards the door down the hallway, third one on the left.

Jim motioned for her to lead on his right. She did as he instructed.

They burst through the door.

Galavan stood in the flesh, black suit, a bruise on his head from where he'd recently gotten into an altercation with a family member: Tabitha must have finally gotten sick of him.

As Jim entered the room, cocking his gun: "Galavan!"

The man in question turned, startled, looking at him.

"You're under arrest."

Galavan suddenly let out a sigh of relief, "Oh god. You scared me, man. I thought you were going to shoot me."

"I'm not going to shoot you."

" _I might._ " Sylvia said darkly.

Galavan looked warily at Sylvia, glancing between her and her brother as he took a seat on the couch. Seeing as she didn't act on her statement, Galavan felt more or less inclined not to engage her further. Jim grabbed a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, and threw them to him, instructing for him to cuff himself.

"Well," Galavan sighed, "thank goodness for simple men of principle, who still believe in the system."

"Yeah, this time, you'll get the chair." Jim promised, taking Galavan by the shoulder.

"Wanna make a bet?"

Sylvia frowned, but then smiled suddenly as Jim twisted Galavan around, pointing his gun at him. Looking like he might just do something he would later regret, but definitely would make Sylvia happy.

"Maybe you're right," Jim breathed, a dangerous glint in his eye.

"Steady now, Jim. I was only talking big." For once, he did look a little intimidated. "As they say, you know. You caught me 'fair and square'."

"I had you like that the last time, didn't I? But you turned it around."

"Yeah. And don't forget he tried to _kill_ you," Sylvia hissed. "And me."

"I know how this could look—" began Galavan, looking at her understandably.

"Shut up!" Jim ordered, glaring at him. "You don't talk to her."

Galavan turned his attention to Jim, disarmed by the detective's protective response while Sylvia inwardly grinned.

" _Gordon!"_

"Barnes," Sylvia uttered disappointedly, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

"JIM! Back up! I got him! 'BACK UP', I SAID!" Barnes shouted, advancing forward with a fellow police officer.

Jim reluctantly did as he was told. Barnes ordered Galavan to get on his knees; the latter did as he was told. Then Barnes looked at Jim, gun pointed cautiously at him.

"Now, I need you to toss over your weapon, and get on your knees."

"What?" Jim retorted.

"You're still a fugitive." Barnes said, saying the words as though they sounded odd coming from his mouth.

"I've done nothing wrong!"

"I want to believe that! So, we're going to do this by the book."

"By the book?" Sylvia piped. "How often has that gotten you guys _anywhere_."

"You get on your knees too." Barnes warned. "You've been aiding and abetting a known fugitive. _Two_ of them."

"I am _not_ getting on my knees."

"Mrs. Cobblepot, please. Don't make me—"

"—I'm not making you do anything—"

"—I'm warning you—"

"Vee, just do as he says!" Jim called from the ground. "It'll be okay."

"Or what!" Sylvia retorted, glaring at Barnes. "You're going to shoot me? Come on, then. Let's have it. Shoot me, Captain—because I'm not getting on that fucking ground. Not with Galavan. And you _know_ what needs to happen with fucking scum like him. He will **never** see justice!"

"SYLVIA!" Barnes bellowed. "Get on the ground or I will have no choice than to treat you like a hostile—"

Some movement behind Barnes distracted him. Oswald appeared, grabbed a vase from its stand, and it shattered over Barnes' head, knocking him out cold. Gabe came from his right side, shooting the fellow police officer into the shoulder, bringing him down. In an instant, Jim grabbed his own gun, getting to his feet, and pointing it at Gabe, who returned the aim.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" Oswald said quickly. "Nobody shoot! We are all friends here!"

"The hell we are!" Jim growled.

"James!" Sylvia snapped.

"I apologize for _that_ ," said Oswald, gesturing to the out-cold body of the officer and Captain Barnes. "That might have been a little over-the-top, but I can't stand it when people threaten Sylvia. It just brings out the worst in me, you know?"

Jim's fingers tightened around the gun. Sylvia smiled as she and Oswald exchanged loving glances. Then Oswald returned back to the business, eyes forward, directly meeting Jim's.

"What's done is done. They're alive. So, that's something. Look forward, Jim. What now. I will _kill_ you to get to him if I have to!"

"Ozzie…" Sylvia said reproachfully, taking a step forward as though she would place herself between them to shield her brother.

Jim and Oswald were glaring at each other. But hearing her soft plea, Oswald decided to take another approach, holding out his hands in front of them as he stepped towards Jim with an attempt to persuade rather than to threaten.

"Forget that this man sicced Barbara Kean on you," He said gently. "Forget that he nearly killed the mother of your child, your sister, _and_ you. Forget revenge. Think of the greater good. Think of _Gotham_. He has courts in his pocket, and billions of dollars at his command. Are you one-hundred percent sure that he won't beat this and walk free again? Are you _sure_ , Jim? Think of Gotham."

Sylvia glanced at Jim, wondering if he was listening to what Oswald was saying. The radio scattered interference, as an officer on the line said: "Captain, Bravo Team in the vicinity of the Penthouse."

Oswald added, "But think fast."

Jim sighed deeply, gun still out and aimed at Oswald. But his fingers loosened, his grip slacked. He glanced at Sylvia whose eyes flickered uneasily between him and her husband. For a moment, Jim was certain that he and the justice department would be able to put Galavan in jail for good. But that percentage of confidence was swaying.

He lowered his gun. It was at that moment when Galavan appeared apprehensive.

"Where do we take him?" Jim asked coldly.

"To the pier." Oswald answered. "No one is there at this time of night."

"Jim…." Galavan began.

"Shut up." Jim croaked, looking at him. "Vee..." (Galavan looked at her.) "Get him. We move him now. The rest of the GCPD is on their way up."

"We can go back the same way we came." Sylvia offered.

Gabe muttered, "Too many stairs. It'll be hours before we get Galavan to the bottom."

"Not if we just push him off the first step and let gravity do the rest."

Jim and Oswald looked at Sylvia with considerate expressions, taking her spouted suggestion under advisement if all else failed.

"There's an elevator." Galavan offered openly.

"Wow." Sylvia sighed sarcastically. " _Now_ you become helpful. See, if _this_ Galavan had made an appearance months ago, I wouldn't feel the need to rip your head off your shoulders and later use it for soccer practice."

"Colorful." He mumbled.

"Elevator isn't a bad idea, Liv." Gabe uttered.

"Fine then. Elevator, it is." Sylvia said, nodding.

She and Jim grabbed Galavan by the shoulders and shoved him forward. A man on his way to his own death sentence never moved too quickly, but surprisingly, Galavan moved at an average walking pace. He grunted when Sylvia pushed him forward into the elevator wall—making every movement as brutal as possible. Jim would have normally objected, but this time, he didn't say a word.

They drove to the pier, stepped onto the wet soil. Oswald opened the trunk where Galavan had been stashed. He grabbed the bat while Jim pulled the mayor out. Sylvia closed the trunk and sat on it, her feet slightly dangling above the ground.

"Jim, you'll live to regret this!" Galavan warned.

"I have many regrets. This won't reach the top of the list."

He forced Galavan on his knees. Oswald looked at him, ready to beat him within an inch of his life.

Sylvia, who sat gracefully on the trunk of the car, met her brother's eyes with little emotion.

"Are you sure you want to watch this?"

"More than anything," She answered calmly.

"Storm's coming," said Galavan, looking up at the lightning-broken sky. "Shame. It's going to be a beautiful morning. Good-bye, Jim Gordon."

Oswald spoke: "This is for my mother."

And then he let it out. One hit after another, Oswald struck Galavan with the bat. The sound of the blunt object striking any part of Galavan was so satisfying, it made Sylvia grin from ear-to-ear.

 _Thud._ Scream. _Thud. Thud, thud, thud._ Galavan screamed harder.

The amount of stamina Oswald possessed was damn near impressive.

Soon, the mayor was bloody, crying for mercy. Galavan looked at Jim: "Please, kill me. Please…."

"Enough!" Jim ordered, pushing Oswald away from him.

Jim looked at Galavan, pondering how to do it.

The man on the ground was pleading for mercy, pleading in general, begging for the end. While Jim considered his options, weighing each as though allowing Galavan to live or die would be a regret in any form, Sylvia watched him carefully. Her hardened expression as she watched her husband beat the living hell out of Galavan softened, seeing the pained look on Jim's face.

With resolve, Sylvia stood, walking towards her brother.

"You can't kill him." She told him, her voice was soft and calm.

Jim and Oswald looked surprisingly at her.

"You've been telling me," said Jim quietly as he looked at the now-beaten and bloodied mayor, "that he has to die. That he _deserves_ to die. And now that I've come this far, so close to doing what you've always wanted me to do, you…. you want him to live?"

"I never said that." Sylvia returned, her voice was still soft and gentle. "He does deserve to die. But not by your hand. He deserves a lot—but he's not worth that."

Jim frowned: "You've wanted me to get this far, Vee. You were right."

"About?"

"I want him...to suffer….as we have _all_ suffered by his hand," Jim said darkly. "The system is corrupt. I know he won't get what should come to him if he goes to prison." He pulled out his gun, turned the safety off, and cocked it. He pointed it at Galavan. "It is men like him that make this city dirty."

"And what about you?" Sylvia questioned. "You're going to muddy up your reputation by giving him what _he_ wants?"

She stepped closer to Jim, her right hand over his hand that held the gun. Oswald watched her, like he was in a trance. Sylvia wasn't predictable; in these moments, he was certain she was deadly...deadlier than most people he knew.

Jim knew this too.

"Kill me..." Galavan groaned from the ground, shutting his eyes tightly. "Please."

"Don't give him what he wants." Sylvia whispered.

"What he wants is to die."

"By _your_ hand."

"I'd oblige." Jim croaked, glaring daggers at the man. His nostrils flared; his brain pulsed at the idea of ending this man's wretched life. "Who better to kill him than me?"

"You're better than this. You're better than Galavan, better than _him_."

"If he's not going to—" Oswald began.

Sylvia glanced at her husband saying, "You're not going to kill him either."

Jim sighed, "And how do you suppose we do it then?"

"We'll do how we've always done things…. what you and I have always done as kids."

Jim blinked.

She said softly, "You and I have always been similar, but I've always said that there's been a difference between us. I've embraced my darkness long ago. You're still battling yours. Just as we were kids, I'd do what you couldn't…what you _shouldn't_."

"I thought you hated me for letting you do that."

"I hated you for telling on me after I did what you didn't want to do. But you can't kill Galavan. It would eat you alive. It'd change you."

"I don't care if it changes me."

"But _I_ do." Sylvia returned, her voice hardening. " _I_ care."

"Vee..."

"Give me the gun."

"Sylvia…."

"Jim! Give me...your…. gun."

Jim sighed, giving it to her.

Sylvia approached Galavan, looking down at him.

"You've put my family through Hell," Sylvia uttered hatefully. "Now, I'm going to make certain that you get to suffer just a little bit more before I send you there."

Galavan looked up at her, eyes wide.

Sylvia shot his kneecap. Galavan screamed.

"That's for my mother-in-law." A shot to the second kneecap, followed by a scream. "That's for my kiddos." A shot to the shoulder. "That's for my husband." A shot to the other shoulder—the screaming nearly died inside his throat. "That's for my brother."

Sylvia knelt down and placed the gun against Galavan's temple.

"And this is for me." Sylvia whispered.

A bullet through the head.

She slowly stood up. Turned around.

Oswald and Jim stared at her. Oswald looked as though he had fallen in love a third or fourth time, although he also seemed a bit intimidated by Sylvia's sadistic display while Jim stared at Sylvia like she was an apparition.

"If people find out you killed the mayor," said Jim softly. "You'll get the chair."

"Are you going to tattle on me?" Sylvia asked, her voice was soft but hoarse.

"No." He smiled a little. "What are siblings for."

Sylvia smiled, hugged him. She stepped over to Oswald who watched her as though she'd bathed in sunlight. Love written all over his face.

"Coming?" Sylvia asked.

Oswald kissed her cheek, "I have one more thing to do."

"The umbrella?"

"Yes, Pigeon."

"You're a bit extra, aren't you?" Sylvia said, smirking at him. "Fine then. I'll meet you back at my apartment. We'll celebrate then, hm?"

Oswald nodded in agreement. She kissed him again, then started walking away. She chose to walk instead of driving back to town. She needed some time to herself. Oswald and Jim watched her leave.

"I've never seen her kill anyone before." Jim muttered.

"It's an enlightening experience."

Ignoring his fascination with her, Jim said seriously, "People will find out what happened to Galavan. Sylvia's tough, but she can't go to Black Gate."

"I feel the same way."

"Barnes is going to want to know what happened to the mayor. He won't let it go. He'll question me. Then he'll question you."

"What are you trying to say, Jim?"

The detective turned to Oswald with a cool gaze, saying, "I guess I'm just wondering…. what're you going to tell Barnes if he asks."

Oswald looked at Jim, his gaze more challenging than ever.

"I'm prepared to do what's necessary to ensure that Sylvia doesn't have to see the inside of a cell."

"You mean 'cover for her'." Jim returned, knowing his meaning. "You would lie for her?"

Oswald smiled in spite of himself, as he returned, "I have, and I do. Wouldn't _you_?"

The wind picked up a chill. A moment passed where Oswald and Jim glanced down at the dead mayor's body for a brief second.

"I was wrong."

Oswald startled, "Excuse me?"

"You asked me the other day. You asked me why I didn't approve of you and Sylvia. I've been in denial but…. she loves you." Jim said, torqueing his jaw as though speaking this truth was causing him physical discomfort. "And clearly, you love _her_. I guess what I'm trying to say is that…. you and Sylvia are fine by my book."

Oswald let out a chuckle, "You're giving us your blessing?"

"I'll give you more than that."

Jim held out his hand. Oswald took the hand, shaking it.

"That means a lot to me. Thank you." Oswald returned.

They both looked in the direction where Sylvia had walked away.

"It _is_ going to be a beautiful morning," Jim said, inhaling deeply then exhaling slowly, looking up at the night sky.

"Yes, it is." Oswald said, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading the third installment of my story. XD Fourth installment coming soon. It's called "A Darkness Like Mine". :P


	6. A Darkness Like Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the 4th installment :) 
> 
> Highlights: When Oswald is placed in Arkham, Sylvia handles the stressors of running Gotham's Underworld alone; Jim is framed for a murder she committed; Edward Nygma tries to figure out his place in Sylvia's life; Oswald's time in and out of Arkham causes problems in their marriage; Sylvia's loyalty and devotion to him is made clearer to him; Sylvia confronts Ed for what he's done to her brother; and Galavan dies for the last time (thank god). 
> 
> No big trigger warnings for this one except for some elements of depression that eventually ease up.

Title: **A Darkness Like Mine**  
Chapters: 21, Words: 79,159

**Chapter 1: Jim Is Free Oswald's Gone**

Welcome to the fourth installment of my story! Let me know what you love so far! I'm always happy to hear from you guys.

Jim sat at the elongated table, dressed in his usual suit. In front of him were many watchful eyes, a pair belonging to one Harvey Dent, the District Attorney of Gotham. A row of other executives, including Jim's legal counsel, sat like a chorus line on each side of him. Between them, sitting in a chair with one hand on the table, the other holding a cane after suffering a major stabbing to the thigh, was Captain Nathaniel Barnes, who watched Jim with a mixed expression of suspicion and resigned appreciation.

Jim was being questioned. Standing outside of the room, keeping his betrothed, Leslie Thompkins, somewhat comfortable was his sister, Sylvia Cobblepot. After Jim had been called in, and before walking into the room, the look of hope shared between the two women was noticeable; but their looks were not for the same reason. Lee wanted this entire thing to be over, and done with. Sylvia's look was reserved for him alone. After all, her future, Lee's, and his own was balanced on his shoulders.

He'd been resigned to knowing this day would come. Sooner or later, Theo Galavan's body was going to be found at the pier; the beaten up, bloodied body, a bullet wound in the head—there's no way that would have gone unnoticed by anyone. He figured he'd be on the stand, answering all of the DA's questions….truthfully? Maybe not.

"After searching the premises, I, as well as Alfred Pennyworth and Selina Kyle, was able to locate the abductee, Bruce Wayne." Jim stated monotonously into the microphone.

Scribbling with his right hand, Harvey Dent was quiet, except during the times when he presented a question or a follow-up inquiry to Jim's statement. After he finished writing down his necessary notes, he asked curiously, "Where was he?"

"Theo Galavan's residence." Jim answered.

"And that's when you opened fire?"

"Yes. We eliminated the threat posed by Father Creel and his men, and were able to recover Bruce Wayne."

"You then left to search for Galavan on your own?"

"Not on my own. No." Jim answered calmly.

"Who else was with you?"

"Sylvia Cobblepot, my sister."

"Just to clarify for our records, your sister _is_ married to Oswald Cobblepot, AKA The Penguin?"

"Yes, sir." Jim grimaced.

"And she came with you to Galavan's residence. Why was she there with you?"

"She heard of Bruce Wayne's predicament and wanted to help."

Dent nodded wordlessly, scribbling that too.

"Did you find Galavan?"

"Yes."

"You detained him?"

"No."

Harvey glanced up: "Why not?"

"Captain Barnes and Officer Vargas arrived and placed me under arrest," Jim answered.

"And did they place Mrs. Cobblepot under arrest too?"

Jim suppressed a smile: "They tried."

"She _resisted_ arrest?"

"Yes. I, however, was detained…."

"That's because at the time of this incident—some four weeks ago—you were a wanted man, a fugitive from the law." Harvey expressed calmly.

"That was a misunderstanding."

"A 'misunderstanding'?" Harvey repeated, smiling.

"Yes. Shortly after Mrs. Cobblepot and I were escorted out of the court room, we were tased unconscious, and then kidnapped where Galavan threatened to end our lives."

"How did you escape that dilemma, then?"

Jim leaned into the microphone and said calmly, "Sir, with all due respect. It's safe to say that while having a ruler of the Underworld for a sister has been nothing more than a pain in my ass, it _does_ certainly reward me with people who are constantly looking after her, and know when something is afoot, especially when three corrupted officers take their leader and brother—blindfolded—to a pier."

Harvey considered this statement with little to no expression, and continued his questionnaire: "What happened next?"

"After I was placed under arrest, Oswald Cobblepot and two of his associates arrived, rendered Officer Vargas and Captain Barnes unconscious."

"Was Sylvia included?"

"No. Just two other men that worked for him."

"What happened after?"

"Oswald Cobblepot and his associates escaped with Galavan."

"You then pursued Cobblepot and his men, correct?"

"Yes."

"Did your sister escape with them?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Honestly, sir, I haven't the slightest idea," Jim returned truthfully. "I can't say why she didn't go with him. She has an unflinching loyalty towards Cobblepot. It's really irritating, actually."

Harvey suppressed the urge to smile. After a moment, he asked, "Were you able to locate them?"

"No."

"At which point you decided to flee the city before law enforcement could question you?"

"Yes, and for that, I have no excuse…other than to say that I was concerned for the safety of my fiancée. She had informed me earlier that day that she was pregnant."

"Congratulations." Harvey said sincerely.

"Thank you."

"For the record," Harvey stated factually to the other executives around him, "Sylvia Cobblepot _did_ come to the precinct on her own free will where she was questioned—during this time, she stated that she was not involved in the murder of Theo Galavan. Detective Gordon, since you are under Oath at this given time, you're in such a position to corroborate her story...or offer us a different testimony."

Jim was quiet for a second, before he leaned into the microphone and said calmly, "Let's be honest. My sister is a known trouble maker—she's been detained countless times, and we _all_ " (He glanced to Barnes included) "know that where the law is concerned, she is apathetic. She's guilty of a lot of things, but…In all good conscience, I can testify that Sylvia was not involved in Theo Galavan's murder."

Harvey nodded, scribbling a few more notes. He then placed his pen to the side, interlaced his fingers on the table, and looked at Jim seriously: "Detective Gordon, within hours of your encounter, Theo Galavan was found beaten and shot to death. Were you present at the time of his murder?"

"No, I was not."

"Do you have any information regarding the case that you have not shared with us?"

"No, I do not."

"Detective, did you have anything to do with the murder of Theo Galavan?" Harvey questioned.

Jim hesitated.

Harvey said sternly, "Detective, answer the question. Were you involved in Theo Galavan's murder?"

"No, I was not." Jim said finally, his throat a little hoarse but otherwise firm.

Lee paced the large corridor, her heels clicking against the mirror-like tile. Meanwhile, Sylvia leaned casually against the wall with her arms crossed. She looked up at the sun-stained glass ceiling, slowly breathing through her nose and out her mouth while Lee continued to pace. After a moment, she moved forward, grabbing Lee's wrist, and pulled her back.

"You're annoying me with that clatter," Sylvia told her with forced calm. "Would you try sitting down or something?"

"He's been in there a long time." Lee whispered, pressing her lips firmly together.

"Of course he has. They don't want to leave any stone unturned. No tree, uncut. No flower, unpicked."

"I don't think that last was a saying."

"You get my drift though," said Sylvia, rolling her shoulders back as Lee took a seat on the bench. "Jim has gotten into a lot worse scrapes than this. He's walking out of this, easy."

"Because he says he didn't kill Galavan. What if they don't believe him?"

"Then he'll go to Black Gate. _Not_ hard to understand."

Lee sent her a strict glare before Sylvia raised her hands up in surrender.

"He's not going to jail, Lee. He didn't kill Galavan."

"You know that for a fact?"

"He says he didn't, right? Don't you believe him?"

"Of course, I do."

"Well, there's your answer," Sylvia replied, sitting beside her. "Find some faith for your man, girl. He's not going to flat out lie to you. I mean, running out of Gotham with two suitcases might have been a little overreacting but I think—on the whole—he's was pretty calm through it all. And the people will see that" (she gestured to the room in which the mediocrity was questioning Jim Gordon) "and both of you will be vindicated."

"You deal with this kind of thing everyday, don't you?" Lee asked.

"Yep. It's a lifestyle at this point."

"So," She said quietly, looking at Sylvia through a cool gaze. "Where's Oswald Cobblepot throughout all of this?"

"Don't know."

"What do you mean you 'don't know'?"

"What it exactly means. I really don't know," Sylvia answered—that flippant tone was back again.

Lee heard that chink of sarcasm more frequently these past couple of weeks. She didn't know Sylvia as well as Jim or Oswald did, but having a little bit of psychology trauma work under her belt seemed to pay off more in Gotham than anywhere else. Lee knew enough about her fiancé's sister—knew that Sylvia used biting sarcasm and dark humor to cover up what was really buried just beneath the surface: fear.

Lee blinked saying, "Your husband is out there—somewhere—and you're not panicking?"

"I never said I'm _not_ panicking," Sylvia countered. "But…Oswald is a survivor. He can make it through anything." (Her tone shifted to one of support instead of self-assurance.) "Now, if I were _you_ , I'd be hoping this whole trial thingy ends soon. The longer he stays in there, answering questions, the longer you'll start wondering how innocent your boy is."

Lee glared at her: "You just told me he didn't do it."

"No, I said you're _supposed_ to think he didn't do it. **He** told you he didn't. _I_ believe he didn't. So, _you_ should believe he didn't kill Galavan." Sylvia reminded smoothly. "Courts always did make me a little sick, though. The order, the style, the traditional antiquity—it's enough to make a girl like me wanna tunnel through the floor to China."

Lee rolled her eyes. That was until the door opened and out came Jim, who looked more or less relieved that the whole situation was done and over with. As Lee and Jim embraced, grateful for one another, Sylvia crossed her arms casually in front of her, smirking at them. After the embrace naturally broke, Jim turned to Sylvia.

"Well?" she asked.

"Well, nothing, Vee." Jim said, smiling. "All charges against me have been lifted and I've been reinstated."

He put an arm around both Sylvia and Lee, and they walked out of the court room.

"Are you sure you want this?" Lee asked. "After everything this job has put us through?"

Jim glanced up at the banister where Capt Barnes and Harvey Dent looked down at the three of them. Sylvia narrowed her eyes at them before Jim pulled her forward, forcing her to break eye contact. Lee noticed the oddity of their presence.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Is that it?" Lee asked uncertainly.

"Yeah. I'm just tired."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Jim, Lee, and Sylvia were outside of the court house, getting ready to leave. Lee sat in the passenger seat, while Jim stopped by Sylvia's black Mustang. As she climbed into the driver's seat, Jim politely closed her door and then after glancing coolly at Lee—sending her a fair smile back—he turned to his sister.

"How'd the trial go?" Sylvia asked.

"It wasn't a trial."

"I know. But I figured I could be the one to ask you this time around."

Jim allowed himself a small smile. He could always count of her to spread some cheer. Jim leaned into the window, wrapped an arm around her shoulders. It was meaningful, and warm.

"Do they suspect anything?"

"If they did," said Jim, straightening. "They didn't ask."

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth."

"The real truth?"

"No," Jim stated, his jaw hardening. "But the truth I gave them will be enough."

"What truth is that?"

"You weren't involved."

Sylvia smiled this time. It reached her eyes.

Jim rarely saw that look, and he felt a part of him become closer to his sister, closer this time around than any other time he'd ever spoken to her. What could reinforce a loving bond between the formerly estranged siblings than a dark, crooked secret?

"Thank you, Jimmy."

"Well, I'd rather you not go to jail for the fiftieth time—before you're forty." Jim said half-seriously.

"I never went to jail."

"You've gone to Juvie."

"Not the same, trust me."

"I have to thank you, you know."

"For?"

"Doing what you did. You're right. It would have changed me."

"I know it would have." Sylvia said, nodding as she started the car. "That's why I didn't leave it up to you. For what it's worth, you may very well kill someone. It's inevitable for you, natural. I just didn't want your first time to be with someone like Galavan."

"Without context, Vee, that sounds really perverted."

"With context, it still _is_ perverted," She returned, winking at him. "But it wouldn't be me, if it wasn't."

A few drops of water dotted the windshield. For once, it was sunny in Gotham. But that didn't keep the rain forecast at bay. Jim glanced up, squinting his eyes. With the rain would come a monsoon—if the storm grates didn't do their job, the Gothamites would be looking at a flash flood. The Homeless would be burrowing under whatever rock they slept during the night...maybe a cardboard box.

Jim looked at Sylvia somberly.

"You don't know where he is?"

"I don't," She said, knowing just who Jim was referring to.

"He didn't give you any details?"

"I told you before. One night, I woke up, and he was gone. Just gave me a letter. I still have it in my possession if you want to read it."

She fidgeted her fingers around the steering wheel; the leather squeaked with her unsettled motions.

"Do you want me to track him down?"

"No."

"As your brother…."

"I said 'no'." She said firmly. "Oswald specifically stated that he didn't want to be found. Not by police. Not by me. He's distancing us so when he's found, I won't be suspected of harboring him. That's the first thing Barnes will accuse me of doing—he's looking for any excuse to put me behind bars after what happened in Galavan's penthouse."

Jim peered over his shoulder at Lee, who watched him expectantly. A short conversation was turning into a serious one. It had been four weeks since Sylvia and Oswald had been seen together. After Sylvia killed Galavan, all three of them had decided their story, sticking to it as best they could. Jim knew Oswald would do his part—Sylvia was their prime concern, to keep her safe from the law; both men would lie out of their asses and even go to Black Gate before they saw Sylvia go.

What Jim didn't expect was for Oswald to suddenly disappear. For weeks, Jim thought Sylvia knew…evidently, she knew as much as he. That was barely nothing.

Sylvia's uncharacteristically soft voice, the way her eyes watered and the fidgeting of her hands on the steering wheel; those were tell-tale signs that she was worried. She wouldn't say it—goddamn, she was just as stubborn and in denial as Jim could be sometimes—but she was scared for Oswald.

"I'll be right back." Jim whispered. He reached his arm through the window, wrapping it around her shoulders in a half-stretched hug and then kissed her forehead.

"Okay."

Jim left briefly to Lee's car. He conversed with her for only a minute. Lee appeared resigned, but a little too understanding. She understood: Jim wanted to be there for his little sister…for once, he'd make sure that he was.

After they kissed each other good-bye, Jim sat in Sylvia's passenger seat, and together, they headed towards the Falcone Mansion—dubbed the Cobblepot Mansion.

Jim had to tip his hat off to his sister.

Even with Cobblepot on the lam, his disappearance having lasted for almost a full month, Sylvia certainly had a control of things. This was noticed by Jim when he got out of the car; the first person to meet them on the sidewalk was Monsieur Bell, who was both the master chef and Head Butler, but also Sylvia's physical trainer, Sensei, and—more times than not—her bookkeeper.

Mr. Bell was a great deal larger than Sylvia, standing at least two feet higher than she—and a foot higher than Jim. His biceps were the size of Sylvia's thighs, and with such a straight back posture, he looked even taller than he really was. He wore tuxedos, steam pressed, sharp creases, and he made going bald look like a fine art—something Victor Zsasz, the professional hitman, could only but admire.

Jim nodded dutifully to Mr. Bell, who eyed him suspiciously, but allowed Jim to pass him, following Sylvia up the sidewalk to the mansion. When they entered, two brutes named Dagger and Chilly, nodded silently towards their direction. Sylvia greeted them with a 'hey, guys' and they returned, "hey, Liv". Contrary to how Oswald ran things, Jim noticed a vastly big difference: She was informal.

Dagger and Chilly were indebted to Sylvia, so to speak. Jim didn't know their true names, only their aliases. And no matter how curious Jim became, Sylvia would not relinquish the information to him or anyone else in the GCPD. Just as they were protective of her; she was as protective of them.

That's how she ran things—they saved each other.

Jim continued walking closely to Sylvia, lest one of her minions decided he was a narc. In many ways, he was. After the debacle during the gala where Oswald had attempted to kill Galavan (the second time in history, but the first time he legitimately tried), Jim was keen and all too informed that his own police officers had wiped out Sylvia and Oswald's men….including several of Sylvia's employees, to whom she referred lovingly as her 'kiddos'. Since then, they had been operating at minimum capacity.

But Jim wasn't too shocked to see that there was a full house. Again.

Men and women that he didn't recognize, all wearing black leather pants and jackets—the women wore similar garb—stood, talking loudly to each other, holding drinks in their hands, shining and oiling their weapons on the elongated table in the Meeting Room. It was the same room in which Jim and Oswald had regularly conducted business 'under the table'…Boy, what Jim would give to bring back _those_ days.

"Ignore them," Sylvia said dismissively as she moved past the rabble.

"Should I be concerned?"

"Hm. Now you sound like Oswald." She chuckled, but didn't answer the question.

Jim cleared his throat when one of the meatier thugs glared daggers at him. Some of them certainly despised any officers—no matter the fact that he was related to their leader. Sylvia stopped in front of her office where a blonde woman resided; doe-eyed and curvaceous, the woman looked more like a receptionist than a bloodthirsty assassin.

"Brittany." Sylvia called coolly.

The blonde named Brittany stopped flipping through the charts inside a cabinet, and starkly straightened, glancing over her shoulder to see Sylvia standing in the doorway, a stern expression transfixed on her face. Jim wasn't sure whether to stay put for Brittany's safety, or duck out since Sylvia might very well commit a crime in front of him.

"Sorry, Mrs. Cobblepot." She apologized quickly, placing a vanilla-colored file behind her back. "One of the Andersons—the-the youngest one...He wanted a file on…." Brittany stopped talking when she recognized who stood behind Sylvia. "Mrs. Cobblepot?"

Sylvia strode inside.

"Come in, Jim. Have a seat," Sylvia sighed, gesturing to the arm chair in front of her desk. She spoke to him, but didn't look at him. Instead, she eyed Brittany warily, as though she'd had this conversation (whatever it was) with the young woman a hundred of times already.

Jim slowly and cautiously took a seat in the chair, holding the arms with some vitality. He glanced curiously at Brittany, who gulped between breaths as Sylvia approached her. She took Brittany by the arm, and snatched the discreet vanilla-colored folder from her, then uttered darkly into her ear.

Brittany's expression faltered from anxiety to that of fear.

"Do I make myself clear?" Sylvia questioned.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Consider this a warning, hm? I know you're just trying to do your job, but…." Sylvia sat at her desk, smiling kindly at her. "You forget that the Andersons don't decide what we do. _I_ do. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good."

Brittany quickly walked to the door; her head was bowed. That was until she stood in the doorway, biting her lip nervously.

"What do I tell—"

"If they want something from me," Sylvia said coolly. "They will ask _me_. They will not ask my staff. But you know, I know what the Andersons do when they get bad news, so don't bother telling them anything. Tell them to wait for me, and I will tell them what they need to know."

"Yes….Yes, ma'am," Brittany squeaked. Though she appeared frightened, there was a small exhale of relief that came out of her, knowing Sylvia was going to take care of delivering the bad news and it might have just spared her life.

"Please close the door on your way out."

Brittany did as she was asked.

Jim turned to Sylvia curiously. Sylvia lifted the file indicatively. On the tab read his name.

"You have a file on me?" Jim questioned indignantly.

"Not officially. It's the same file Loeb gave you and Harvey Bullock when you used his homely daughter against him."

"Why do _you_ have it?"

"Feeling paranoid, Jimmy?"

"No. Just a little insulted," Jim grumbled.

"Your file has made quite the trail. First it was Loeb's. Then it was yours. Someone sneaked into your apartment and got it. For a while, it was passed between the Five Families, to include the Drays, the Maronis, the Paddocks, and the Belichs." Sylvia said listlessly. "When I found that out, I was generous enough to get it back in my hands before the Andersons could get ahold of it."

Jim frowned.

"Don't look so grumpy. There's nothing in it to bedazzle the coins out of the Underworld." She reassured dryly. "You'd be surprised how little the Families know about you."

"Why does that make me feel less assured?"

"Probably because it's coming out of my mouth."

"You're not wrong there."

Sylvia placed the file back in the cabinet, saying, "You'd have to excuse Brittany. She's fairly new. Doesn't know how to handle the Families when they get a little rambunctious. She's a people-pleaser, twenty-four-seven. It's good for business in the club—not for business in the Underworld."

"She seemed apologetic enough."

"She's still learning."

"Is she your new 'kiddo'?"

Sylvia smirked. "Well, I've had to rebuild my crew ever since _your_ kiddos took mine out."

"They're the Strike Force. They're Barnes' people, not mine."

"But you orchestrated the team," Sylvia said, wagging a finger at him. "So, you're basically Dad."

"Ugh. How are you able to pervert everything?"

"I'm a woman with a high metabolism and an unusually overly active sex drive. Everything's dirty to me." Sylvia returned with a promising smile. She added seriously, "It's taken me a lot of time to get over the deaths of all the people you've laid to slaughter—sorry, not _you_ , just your GCPD—but I've realized that with destruction comes an opportunity to rebuild and recast. Brittany is full of unlocked potential; once she stops panhandling to the Families and realize that _I'm_ in charge, she'll get better."

"And Dagger and Chilly?"

"Still loyal as ever."

"How do you find these people again?"

"I don't take resumes," She answered nonchalantly. "I'm actually surprised I've been able to accrue these many employees, to be honest."

"They like your management style."

"Or they like a pretty face. Or they like the money. I'm not cheap, you know. Either way, it gives me employees."

"Things get a little lonely here without Oswald, I imagine."

"Jimmy, you don't want to know what I do on the nights I'm lonely. I'd hate for that image to get stuck in your head." Sylvia lamented, smirking at him. "But you've got a point. Oswald had a certain charisma that I lack. He could get people to work for him—no kindness needed. And I didn't have to work nearly as hard, or talk to the Families nearly as much. But I think with my level of affluence, I don't have to worry about people betraying me. Most of them will gladly stab me in the face before they go behind my back."

"Comforting."

"Not even."

Sylvia sat back in her chair, lazily opening a drawer.

Out of instinct, Jim straightened and put his hand over the holster that sheathed his gun. Sylvia raised her eyebrows, and quickly held up a hand, smirking when Jim relaxed as he saw a pack of cigarettes in it.

"Relax, James." She sighed. "I'm not going to kill you. Just because I'm ruling the roost doesn't mean I'm going to off my kin. Do you have a lighter on you, by any chance?"

Jim rolled his eyes but he pulled one out of the pocket of his inner jacket saying with slight annoyance, "I don't see why you don't just keep one here."

"It's not like it's fucking chap stick—a chap stick for the bedroom, one for work, one for the purse—it's a goddamn lighter," Sylvia said, licking her lips as she placed a single cigarette stick between her lips. She took the lighter from him gratefully, uttering a small noise of thanks, and then flicked it until an ember rose.

"I thought you gave up smoking." Jim said coolly.

"Don't judge me," Sylvia said after she inhaled a deep drag. "I can't run an empire drunk—this seemed like the best alternative."

"It'll age you."

"So will stress. Guess I'll be looking sixty when I'm forty." She gestured to him. "So, what'd you tell Lee?"

"You wanted to talk."

"That's lame."

"Well, it's true, right?" He offered, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the desk. "With all this" (He gestured around the office) "and your cronies sitting and amusing themselves in all of the rooms, I'm surprised you'd want me around here."

Sylvia flicked the tip of her cigarette in the marble ash tray, muttering, "It beats the hell out of talking in the monsoon. This storm is gonna be a bad one."

"It's always a bad one."

"Flash floods, Jim."

"It's not breaking news. Gotham has terrible weather."

"You're not wrong. And the people are going to suffer for it. Speaking of which, you wanted to see the letter?"

"You're going to let me read it?"

Sylvia bit her lip.

"Let's have an understanding, shall we? I wouldn't betray Oswald. He's my husband, and I love him. But you're a great detective. And while he's left me nothing to go on, to figure out where he is or how he's doing, I'm kind of hoping you'll be able to figure it out."

"Figure out what?"

"Anything." She admitted, exhaling smoke through her nose and mouth.

She stood up slowly, walked over to a bookcase that was more than stuffed with the obvious. Jim furrowed his eyebrows when she lifted a book filled with French literature—all written and could only be read in its language—and walked back to the desk. She sat in her throne, and handed it to him.

"What…."

"Page 123."

Jim nodded and turned to the page. In between the pages of the French literature was a single hand-written letter on college-ruled notebook paper. He took it out, and looked up curiously at Sylvia.

"Why is it here? I thought you said you had it on you."

"I said I had it in my possession. Not technically a lie. I'm getting pretty good at it, aren't I?"

Jim let out a sigh of exasperation then glanced at the pages of the book: "Is this where you found the letter?"

"Yes."

"How did he know you'd come across it?"

"I've been learning French," Sylvia returned.

Jim stared at her. A silent question of 'why'.

"He knows French," Sylvia returned, shrugging her shoulders. "He's an intelligent man, if you've never noticed, James. I got him beat at physical prowess—I was hoping to stand on his level with intellect."

"I thought Mr. Bell was teaching you sign language."

"I've mastered it." Sylvia said, smirking at him. "Now I want a new challenge."

"Learning Sign Language wasn't enough for you? Being a hand-to-hand combat fanatic wasn't enough?" Jim questioned ironically.

"Stop judging me, and read the damn letter."

"Fine, fine. Why this page?" Jim asked, looking at the number in particular.

"He's sentimental," Sylvia sighed as she put the cigarette out in the ashtray with finality.

"It's a date?"

"Yes."

"Regarding?"

Sylvia grinned broadly. "It's the first day we made love."

"If it wasn't for the fact you're my sister and you just told me that, I'd think it was really sweet," Jim muttered, closing his eyes as though he just had shampoo fall into them.

He took the letter out of the folded crease and closed the book, certain that Sylvia wouldn't forget the page number. Now he wouldn't be able to, either.

The writing itself was concise, neat, and the lettering was bold. Not written in haste—and for all of Oswald's characteristics, he'd have written the letter calmly. There was no date on the top, not even a signature at the bottom. Jim read the letter aloud:

"' _My heart,_

_We both know how this will end. One of us is going to Black Gate while the other stands on the outside, looking in—I can't imagine either situation will be pleasant. I'm sure you've already decided in which situation you will be._

_For now, there needs to be distance. People know us, by now. They know we are never one without the other, and while I would not have it any other way, it's finally come full circle._

_Once I'm found and the police have caught me, I need to know you will not be involved in my arrest._

_I won't say where I have gone because I know you'll come looking for me. Please, for once, do as I say. And stay. I need to make sure you are safe, and if that means putting as much distance between us, then that's what I'll do._

_You are my heart. You always have been, and always will be._

_I love you,_

_Forever Yours._ '"

Jim looked up at Sylvia who was blindly staring ember cinders through her desk until Jim cleared his throat, bringing her attention back to him.

"He left in the middle of the night?" Jim asked, handing Sylvia back the letter.

"Yes," She answered hoarsely, placing it back in the leaflet of the French literature. "I went to bed. In the middle of the night, I realized he wasn't sleeping beside me. I didn't find the letter until a couple days after."

Thunder rolled outside of the mansion; a flash of lightning lit up the dark cloudy sky. Sylvia sighed shakily, taking out another cigarette. She used Jim's lighter, and then placed the stick in her mouth, deeply dragging before allowing a slow, steady exhale to leave her lips. Jim watched her curiously.

"I've never seen you so worked up before," Jim pointed out.

"Well, I've never really had to panic."

"Oswald's been in trouble before."

"Not like this."

"Maroni tried to crush him alive in a Sedan."

"Well, that was _Maroni_ ," Sylvia snapped, smacking her hand on the desk. "This isn't someone trying to kill him, this is Oswald being….being _Oswald_."

"He doesn't want to see you get hurt," Jim offered calmly.

"Jim…." Sylvia uttered dangerously, as she closed her eyes in irritation.

She opened them and Jim looked at her empathetically.

" _I_ killed Galavan. I shot him in the head. I watched him die. And so far, _you've_ been questioned and even nearly had your license revoked, and my husband is out on the streets, living like a fucking **bum**!"

Jim raised his hands level to her.

"I'm not getting any kind of justification."

"You _want_ to go to Black Gate?" Jim questioned incredulously.

"I'm not talking about that kind of justice."

"Good…You were starting to worry me there."

"My marriage is strong enough to withstand a lot of things, but I personally can't sleep knowing my husband is out there on the streets, acting like a homeless person!" Sylvia said shakily. "What if he's getting mugged, or attacked by some dirty hoodlum? We both know he can't physically defend himself—I'm his fucking bodyguard for crying out loud."

"I thought you were his 'Queen'."

"A bit of both, asshole—you chose a good time to poke holes with your technicalities."

"Vee, breathe."

Sylvia stood up suddenly and paced the room.

"Galavan is _dead_ ," She growled, glaring daggers out the window. "So why **the hell** am I still suffering by his hand?"

"Oswald will come back."

"Yeah, in handcuffs. Not exactly a comforting thought."

"Better than him ending up dead."

"Not getting any better, Jim—your bedside manner is lacking. Maybe you just take a leaflet out of Lee's book," Sylvia said irritably.

"You know, I can't ever tell if you're Oswald's wife or his mother."

Sylvia turned to look at Jim, who eyed her warily. Did he step over a boundary? He was certain he did until she cracked a smile. Still...not that comforting.

"So fine." Sylvia admitted quietly, as she took another drag from her cigarette. "I mother him. That's what people think—so be it. But I can't help it. He brings out a protective urge in me…."

"But he's your husband."

"I know. I don't understand it myself. One moment, he's a strong, virile criminal mastermind with all the power at his fingertips…And in another moment, he's this person that I feel the need to nurture and protect."

Jim rolled his eyes: "That can't be helpful."

"You don't feel the same way about Lee?"

"Can't say I have. It's kind of weird, Vee."

"Sorry, but not all of us can be hard-shelled studs all the fucking time," Sylvia said, looking at him coldly. "If you showed any ounce of sentimentality, maybe Lee would feel the same way about you. You're always running straight into the abyss—hoping you'll find yourself in a dark crevice somewhere to unleash your killer instinct...I wonder if maybe you're just trying to find a room to lock yourself in so you could break down and cry. I mean, that's all I ever want to do anymore!"

Sylvia sat down at her desk, roughly. The chair squeaked from her sudden intrusion, and she outed the cigarette in the ash tray none too ceremoniously. Jim stared at her, not because he wasn't used to getting chewed out by his little sister, but because she was finally revealing to him what she'd been hiding from the rest of the world.

She was tired. She was stressed. Sylvia was one of the best leaders of the Underworld Gotham could ever ask for, but when it came down to it—she never wanted to wear the crown. The burden of running the kingdom was weighing heavily on her shoulders.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself, Vee." Jim said softly, touching her arm and massaging it gently. "You're digging your grave."

"My mother-in-law's funeral is next week," Sylvia uttered weakly. "My kiddos are six feet under. My husband is _literally_ on the streets, and I am constantly looking over my shoulder. The empire Oz and I built is all I have left, Jimmy. If I lose that, then going after Galavan and everything he put us through will have been for nothing."

Jim pressed his lips tightly together, frustration eating him out of house and home.

"Why are you looking over your shoulder?"

"There are always people who think they can rule Gotham's underbelly better. And they're waiting for me to slip up."

"Like who?"

Sylvia glanced through the office door window, seeing all the faces of people who worked for her and laughing together over drinks.

" _All_ of them."

**Chapter 2: A Family Meeting**

Sylvia sat at the head of the table inside the Meeting Room. A month of sitting in Oswald's throne, and she still wasn't quite used to it.

The Authoritarian ruler of Gotham's Underworld…seemed pretty impressive to anyone on the outside looking in, but Sylvia couldn't deny that her nerves were on the grind. She might have gone through a pack of cigarettes in a day—if it wasn't for Mr. Bell hiding them from her.

She called a meeting with the Five Families, knowing full well that all would attend. For now, she was inwardly grateful that Mr. Bell had suggested keeping them in the living room—so the Meeting Room could be her own private quarters as she gathered her thoughts.

In a charming suit and tie—contrary to his usual tuxedo—Mr. Bell placed in front of Sylvia a glass of iced tea with a shot of lemon vodka, and a thick black notebook that he'd updated in the past two months that recorded the debts all families and other less than fortunate homebodies owed to her. He stood behind her, feeling both protective of his Mistress as well as selfishly perusing the fireplace to warm his chilly buttocks.

Standing on either side of the double doors in the room were Dagger and Chilly. Both men wore black suits with red ties. Dagger was the bouncer of sorts; his role was pretty self-explanatory. Chilly, who owed his life to Sylvia (after blowing fifty grand that originally belonged to Falcone) continued paying his debts to her by enforcing the cool factor: everyone had to maintain some type of civility, otherwise they'd get a bruise. Gabriel, who'd originally worked for Maroni, stood next to Chilly, having a conversation about gambling and how much it would take to buy the entirety of Gotham City.

Brittany was in the living room, offering beverages to the guests. While she had that curvaceous, blonde beauty, often times wearing every color of the rainbow, every male and female knew better than to try anything. Brittany was ditsy, beautiful, naive—but she was ultimately Sylvia's to protect. And, god have mercy on anyone who dared hurt her.

While Brittany was serving as a bartender of sorts, Delilah was Sylvia's eyes-and-ears. Delilah was five-foot-ten, wore a lot of Gothic-themed clothes, and she had a long, detailed dragon tattoo that wrapped around her back and torso. With dark chocolate hair, and amber eyes, she was beautiful but fierce. As good of a talker she could be, Sylvia valued her more for listening in on people's conversations. A good listener, indeed.

Both women had heard of Sylvia Cobblepot. Knew she was protective of her people. Tough, but fair. Delilah and Brittany had both come to the club, _Lean on Vee_ 's, thinking it was still owned and run by Fish Mooney. A year spent outside of Gotham made all the difference, and they were surprised to learn that the Umbrella Boy's squeeze had been running things. Delilah and Brittany were at first surprised and disappointed….but Sylvia had something of a reputation that proceeded her. In many ways, she was compared to Fish Mooney. Both management style, and charisma.

And they loved her for it.

Needless to say, both girls were eager to prove themselves. Delilah was an immediate success. Brittany…was still learning.

The ladies, Dagger, Chilly, Gabe, and Mr. Bell made up Sylvia's inner circle. The others…for now…would have to prove their loyalty, for Sylvia was not so quick to trust. At least, not anymore.

"This is it?" Sylvia asked quietly, flipping through the thick lined papers within the black book.

"It's been updated," Mr. Bell said lowly, nodding behind her. He faced the fireplace, holding out his hands to the heat, rubbing them briskly. "The numbers are as high as they've ever been."

"I'm sure they were supposed to be higher."

"After the ordeal with Galavan, things have been unsettled."

"I took _care_ of Galavan. Things should be settled by _now_."

"People are talking, my lady." Mr. Bell sighed disappointedly. "Trying to stir the pot."

"Who?"

"Delilah has the names. I just know there are rumors. You'd want to crush the rumors—that _is_ why you're having the meeting, aren't you?" He asked, turning to her, forgetting the heat.

"One of many reasons."

Sylvia scooted her chair back. Mr. Bell pulled it to the side so she freely stood and he scooted it back into the table. He watched her briefly pace the floor; her flats were noiseless along the wooden tiles. Wearing a black knee-high skirt, fish net stockings, laced up boots, and a V-neck black camisole, Sylvia's naked arms and legs provided a noticeable exposure—but Sylvia was very well guarded. Despite the cool air inside the mansion, Sylvia was hot under the collar (literally and figuratively speaking).

"Galavan punched a hole through the empire, big enough for other people to jump in and try to take a part for themselves," Sylvia said coolly. She lazily picked up the glass of tea, drank from it for a moment, and placed it back on its wooden coaster.

"You're bringing that control back, then?"

"Yes."

"By having a meeting?"

"By establishing new expectations," Sylvia answered stoically. After, she ran her tongue over her teeth, adding, "You put way too much sugar in this."

"I can make another."

"No need. It's fine." She waved her hands at him dismissively but gave him an apologetic smile. "I never specified how much sugar to put in it. It's delicious, either way."

"What's with the grimace then?"

"I can taste it on my teeth."

"Are you sure you don't want me to remake it?"

"No, this will do." Sylvia insisted pleasantly. She took another sip. "It's probably better I have the extra sugar. I feel like it's going to be a long day."

"The meeting is all that's on your agenda for the day, my lady."

"Yes, but that's my morning."

"Meaning?"

"I have a meeting with the commissioner," Sylvia answered, a tinge of annoyance barely grazed the surface, but Mr. Bell, who knew his protege, heard it in her voice. "He's been insistent. I meet with him in the afternoon."

"I can prolong the meeting."

"Don't bother. After I speak with the heads of the Families, I'll be talking to _him_. I've put him off for as long as I can—If I continue to do so, it'll just look like I've been avoiding him."

"It's a meeting about….?"

"His dirty cops."

"He only gets a 10% take. His cops personally get only what you allow them to receive. Those were the established terms," Mr. Bell reminded curiously. "What else is there to discuss? It'd be redundant to have the meeting. Are you _sure_ you don't want me to go in your stead?"

"As charismatic and capable you've proven to be, Mr. Bell, he's made it clear to me that he doesn't want to talk to you," Sylvia said, crossing one arm over her chest while the other lied on top of it as she held her glass. "He wants to talk to me. No one else."

"For?"

"He wants to renegotiate terms."

"Because of Galavan's interference?"

"No. The only thing Galavan has interfered with was Oswald's mind. Dangling Gertrud's life in front of him made him weaker. Easier to control. These people" (Sylvia gestured outside to the people who were waiting for her, and to imply the Commissioner) "think that I'm weak…weak because I don't have Oswald with me. Bless their hearts—they're sorely mistaken."

Mr. Bell allowed a small proud smile to grace his rough features as he said happily, "I'm more than pleased to hear you say that."

Sylvia drank the rest of her tea, and handed the empty glass to him.

"A Queen is a Queen, with or without her King," She sighed. She glanced into the fire place and muttered, "Even if she never truly wanted the throne, she'd defend it, the King, and herself—right down to the bitter end."

"That's poetic." Mr. Bell offered, smiling sadly. "Shakespearean, really."

"Thank you. I made it up on the spot."

"Would you like another tea?"

"Please."

"Less sugar?"

"More of it, actually. That was pretty damn good."

"How about a lemon?"

"Don't bother with the lemon."

"Vodka?"

"Please, Monsieur."

Mr. Bell nodded with a sinful smile. He rounded the table, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Sylvia turned from the fireplace, looking to him in response.

"For what it's worth, I couldn't see anyone else that could do the job half as well as you could." Mr. Bell reassured.

"I can." She admitted quietly, smiling sadly as she glanced at the throne. "I can think of another person who could do this job with his hands tied behind his back."

"He's fine, I'm sure."

"I know he is." She looked at Mr. Bell squarely in the eye. "But that doesn't keep me from worrying about him."

Mr. Bell was well-versed in hand-to-hand combat, French, German, and sign language. But for all his tactical advances, and gentlemanly persona, he couldn't find the right words to comfort his Mistress. Perhaps there was no room for comfort. Realizing this, Mr. Bell lifted the empty glass, saying, "I'll be getting that tea for you now, my lady."

" _Merci._ "

Mr. Bell left shortly after her whispered thanks. Still, she continued to stare into the fireplace.

How many times had she come into this very room, and see Oswald doing this very thing? Staring into a fireplace, searching the glowing embers for an answer that wouldn't come. Her questions had been answered already, but that didn't stop her from searching for new ones—answers she wanted to hear, rather than the ones that she'd already accepted with great disappointment.

Running an empire wasn't easy, even with Oswald by her side. Or maybe, with her by _his_ side. In all fairness, Sylvia never wanted to rule. She hadn't believed she could—running a club seemed far-fetched, but then she was given Mooney's club, and she'd run that sucker so well! Money was pouring in, the business was doing greater than ever, even when Mooney was running things.

Still though.

Delegating tasks to the underlings, walking around Gotham, doing rounds…that wasn't her cup of tea. Sylvia much preferred to be the one operating on the ground, not in a tower. Mr. Bell could offer her that reassurance, that she was doing a superb job at running things….to his credit, it helped knowing people were looking up to her, but it made the responsibility to never fail that much heavier.

"Come home, Oz." Sylvia mumbled, closing her eyes.

One hand on the mantle, her thumb rubbing the white-painted, marble edges.

She couldn't care if he came home and she was arrested for harboring and abetting a known criminal. She'd gotten into worse scrapes than that, survived them, and was proud of it. Being away from him served to be a lot more painful than any sentence to Black Gate could have ever been.

"Mrs. Cobblepot?" squeaked a voice.

Sylvia blinked, straightened her back, and turned to see Brittany standing half-way between the two double doors that led to the living room. Her body from the waist up was leaned forward to talk to Sylvia privately, while the other half was planted firmly in the living room.

"Yes?"

"How much…How much longer are you going to be? They're getting impatient."

"Would it be too bold to tell them that I'm waiting for my glass of tea?" Sylvia said half-seriously.

Brittany blinked, uncertain whether Sylvia was being humorous or she was actually serious. The dilemma of laughing when she could have and laughing when she shouldn't had given Brittany the twitches, evident by the way her left eye tweaked a little.

"I was joking," Sylvia reassured.

"Oh, ha…." Brittany nervously laughed. "Well, I…."

"Just let them in. Have the wolves come. There's no point in making them wait any longer, is there?"

"I suppose not."

Brittany opened the doors. All of the families were there. However, because this was a meeting for only the Heads of the Families, the invited had only brought their bodyguards—that was about two people per Head.

The Andersons' Head was originally the Don, but because the Don was retiring soon, he'd allowed his son, Drake, to come for the meeting. He was a great deal taller than Sylvia—he was nearly six feet whereas she was barely 5 feet. He'd once tried crossing Sylvia before, and it provided a comedic scene that his family would never live down. Being yelled at halfway across the room by someone who was nearly half his size was a memory no one planned on forgetting anytime soon.

Drake Anderson was probably the most aggressive of the Five Families, and that was if you included the Maronis.

Since their boss had been shot dead in a garage by Fish Mooney, they had to scramble for the next made man. The lucky soul just so happened to be Sal Maroni's next kin, his niece, Maria. But Maria was a lot like Falcone's son in that regard. Like Mario Falcone, Maria insisted on not becoming a part of the trade. After Maria's declination, the job of being Don fell to Maroni's Uncle: Ron.

Just as the name suggested, the man was simple. Ron Maroni was pushing into his late forties, but thanks to a life history of smoking big, drinking big, and just general bad eating habits, he looked like a 50-year-old Semi-Truck tire: big and round. Compared to his brother, Ron wasn't a fella who could move very fast. For him, it was a bad thing; for Sylvia, it was an advantage. She needn't be so vigilant on his movements when he seemed to take a millennia just to say a few words.

For all of Salvatore Maroni's hotheaded talk, Ron wasn't as impetuous. He was just as civil, but calmer than the rest of his family. Another advantage, to say the least.

The head of the Dray Family was a sixty-year-old man, Max (Maximillian) Dray. A mane of gray hair that used to be there when he was a decade younger had now all but receded. His face was elastically long, eyes sunken in from years of stress. Aside from being mistaken for a Halloween decoration, he was a pleasant man to do business with. Out of the Five Families, the Drays were the most patient and civilized—even compared to Sylvia.

The Belichs (pronounced Bell-EEck) were of Russian and French descent. They were one of the two reasons why Sylvia had started learning French. She could speak their language, sure, but now she could _hear_ what they were saying about her. It was also the same reason Oswald had learned the language. Head of the Family was Frenchman, Jock. His last name was so hard to say that Sylvia had just taken to calling him 'Monsieur Jock', or just 'Monsieur'. Leave the correct pronunciation and proper gentleman talk to Oswald, she thought. Jock was smooth talking, a sycophant. He was young, late twenties, wore a symbolic brown leather jacket, had a nicely shaven head, and always had a five o'clock shadow. Other than that, not a memorable guy.

The last Head of the Five Families was Isaac Paddock, a man (See a pattern here?). Isaac had to be one of the most intriguing bosses Sylvia had ever encountered. Contrary to the fact that Isaac looked like any other average man residing in Gotham, Isaac's men dressed in far fancier suits. At best, the Head of the Family wore jeans, a white shirt with a clip-on tie….and that was Fancy Isaac. His casual demeanor threw off a lot of unsuspecting people.

Forget the fact that this man was running one of the most reputable businesses on the coast. Forget that this man had once served under the President of the United States when he was still in the Air Force. Forget all of that.

The most intriguing fact about Isaac was that he was deaf. And he communicated in Sign Language. To keep things from getting spicy, Sylvia regularly spoke while she signed so all the parties in the Meeting would understand what was being said (or at least what was allegedly being said).

It wasn't a secret that Isaac looked on Sylvia with more favor. Even when Oswald was running things, the Paddock Head still favored Sylvia on a grander scale. After all, she'd gone above and beyond to make him feel included, learning his own language and culture—and also saved him some money since Isaac was paying out the nose to find a translator of his own.

Isaac was patient, calm, mostly obedient, and because he favored Sylvia over the rest, he did what he could to make sure she didn't encounter as many problems from his people as she did with the other families.

It made things easier, at least.

Now with all the Heads gathered in the room, and seated, Sylvia remained standing, glancing to the double doors for Chilly and Dagger to close them. They remained alert and vigilant, constantly searching the room for any antagonists.

Shortly after the doors were closed, Mr. Bell entered, looking less than happy that the door nearly slammed on his face. He strode through the room in bounding foot falls, and placed a fresh glass of tea on the table in front of Sylvia's spot; she smiled gratefully at him, although she remained standing.

The men greeted one another in that over-the-top friendly gesture: handshakes here, half-meaning hugs there.

"Gentlemen." Sylvia greeted, smiling at them all. "Before we begin, I must apologize for the grieving oversight. I know I've been putting you all off for a fair while. Let's just all agree that Galavan was a pain all of our asses. Now that's he's gone for good, we can continue working together as we always have."

"Working together?" Ron Maroni piped up, leading the other men in a titter of agreement. "When have we ever worked together?"

"You're alive, aren't you?"

"Very much so."

"Then we've been working together. If we weren't, you'd be buried six feet in the ground."

"Is that a threat?"

"A _promise_ , Mr. Maroni."

Ron Maroni looked at her with a cool facade, even though he knew she meant well.

Before Sal's untimely—if not sudden—death, Sal's people left a bad taste in Sylvia's mouth. Twice, they'd sexually assaulted her, and twice, she'd made them pay for it. And while the bastards were dead and their carcasses had long been eaten away by moths and god-knows-what-else, Sylvia still shuddered in disgust at the sound of Maroni's surname.

Isaac Paddock signed, immediately pulling Sylvia's attention to him. Isaac looked a great deal concerned as he used his hands to communicate. He was a quick one, and Sylvia caught every word.

As she signed back, Sylvia answered vocally as well: "I'm not angry. No. Galavan" (She finger spelled the names) "disrupted a lot of the businesses, but I think once people realize he's been taken care of, things will start going back to normal. Or" (She chuckled) "as normal as they can be in Gotham."

Isaac signed back.

She smiled: "I know. I hope so too."

"Have you met with the Commissioner yet?" Ron Maroni questioned, ignoring Isaac's silent reassurance.

"No. That's this evening."

Thankfully, Isaac wasn't getting lost in the translation. He could read lips.

"And what are you going to tell him?"

"What I'm telling you." Sylvia said calmly. "The Commissioner wants to renegotiate terms. He thinks that Galavan's intrusion—his whole thing with Bruce Wayne—has upset the foundation. He is wrong. I am prepared to tell him that the terms are as they stand, and if he wants to renegotiate, then he can retire. I'll be more than happy to talk to the next one that takes his place."

"He wants to talk about a bigger paycheck."

"What he gets from his dirty cops and from me is more than enough," She abstained.

"Ten percent," Maroni chuckled darkly. "Ten percent. Do you know how long it took for us to get to that percentage. Hours, Sylvia. _Hours_."

"I'm not disagreeing, Mr. Maroni. The Commissioner is just looking after his people. With Gotham's new lunatics out to cause mayhem, I can't really blame him."

"Jerome certainly had them flying on the seat of their coattails," chuckled Maximillian Dray. He let out a cough, rubbing his elastic face momentarily, adding, "I apologize. I've been fighting a cold for the past month or so."

Suddenly, Drake Anderson stood, gaining everyone's attention, including Sylvia's. His abrupt movement made Mr. Bell cringe behind Sylvia, who gave him a meaningful glance. The gun that Mr. Bell was about to pull from the holster around his belt slacked back into its sheathe; everyone was tense—Mr. Bell was no exception.

"Something you want to say, Mr. Anderson?" Sylvia asked coolly.

"You've been putting us off for a while now. Me, included. I'm not talking just days, or weeks. You've been putting me off for _months_."

"I suppose I should apologize for that?"

"I think you should." Drake insisted, gesturing violently to her. "You've been dodging me. Us."

"Not that it's any of your business, but I've had a lot on my plate," Sylvia said firmly. "I'd invite you to run this thing yourself, but I'm sure you'd leap at the opportunity, wouldn't you?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like."

Drake strode around the table, towards Sylvia. Dagger and Chilly cocked their shot guns, warning him. Drake heard the sound, glanced over his shoulder at the massive body guards then slowly glared at Sylvia. He put his hands on the table, bearing his weight.

"There's talk, Sylvia. Lots of talk."

"Talk about what?" She questioned. "Everyone in Gotham is hungry. I know that. People want to take my place, just as they all wanted to take on Falcone. If you're applying for this job, young Anderson, you might want to consider other half-time jobs before taking on this one."

"You don't think I'm capable?"

"I _know_ you're not capable."

Drake bared his teeth, and pointed harshly at her, "You don't know _half_ of what I know."

"Well, you're wrong." Sylvia answered. "Mr. Bell?"

Mr. Bell left shortly through the double doors as though on cue. He returned with a vanilla-colored envelope, handing it straight to her. She took it gingerly and thanked him.

"What is all this now?" Ron Maroni questioned.

"Proving a point." Sylvia answered politely.

Ron Maroni nodded, and he remained content to sit and watch the display.

Drake, however, looked punitive. His lips twitched, trying to move into syllables that could then produce sounds of dismay, but none came out. Sylvia held the file out to him, showing the profile of Detective James Gordon. This display made Drake's face become a shade of gray.

"You've been trying to get this," Sylvia said darkly. "Haven't you?"

"No."

" _No_?" She repeated incredulously. She stood. "Not a month ago, shortly after I declined your request to see me, you put one of your men up to the challenge of breaking into my office and getting this file on my brother. Yes, Drake, I _know_ it was you."

Drake frowned: "You're paranoid."

"Maybe," Sylvia agreed. "But I have good reason to be. After all, y _ou_ hired your men to break into my office. _You_ have been trying to find dirt on my family to use against me...even though blackmail never suited you. I bet it was your father that came up with the idea, huh? _You_ are the only person who seems to have a problem with the way I run things."

Sylvia handed the file back to Mr. Bell.

Drake breathed in deeply through his nose and out of his mouth, glancing at his fellow Families but realizing none were going to stand up and take his side. Quite the opposite; most of them looked livid that Drake had gone as far as breaking into Sylvia's territory to find a file on her own kin.

"Sure," Drake said finally, raising his hands in front of him. "You know, you caught me. You're right. I don't like you running things."

"Well, we can both agree on something now. But suck it up, buttercup."

"I'm sorry, but _Madame_ , if you don't like running this operation," said Jock Belich calmly. "Why do you still continue to do so?"

"I have my reasons." Sylvia answered. "And for now, those reasons are mine and mine alone. Let's make something clear, shall we?—Sit down, Mr. Anderson—I am not going to give anything up. Not to you" (She gestured to everyone in the room) "and not to anyone else that thinks I'm weak. I've brought you here for one reason only. And that's to clear the air."

"Clear the air?" Max Dray repeated.

"Figuratively speaking, of course." Sylvia said with a small smile.

"That's disappointing. The Smog is killing my lungs."

"Yeah, no kidding," chuckled Jock Belich. "I can't ever tell if it's fog or smog…."

Drake Anderson mumbled, "Fucking weather talk…."

Sylvia continued calmly, "I will do my best to accommodate all of you. But if you want to maim anyone, kill or kidnap—what have you—I need to be notified. Especially if it concerns matters with the GCPD." Sylvia glowered pointedly at Anderson. "Am I clear?"

There was a mumble of agreement.

"Any questions?" Sylvia offered. "Statements, complaints, equivocations?"

Everyone shook their head.

"You're all free to leave then."

The double doors opened and mostly everyone left. Sylvia smiled when Isaac Paddock remained. Although, her happiness faltered when she saw just how concerned he appeared. She approached him.

Slowly, he signed to her.

Sylvia smiled in spite of herself, signing back as she said, "I'm doing as well as I can. Oswald" (she spelled his name with her fingers) "has been gone for a month.'

Isaac frowned and signed to her, ' _I'm sure he's doing well. He's been through worse before. Please, though, talk with your hands. No one needs to hear us_.'

She nodded.

Isaac signed: ' _What was the real reason you brought us here?'_

Sylvia replied, ' _I needed to know who was against me. Obviously, it's Drake Anderson. He's a pain in the ass._ '

Isaac let out a smooth chuckle, patting Sylvia on the shoulder. He signed, ' _My dear woman, that boy has always been like that. Aside from him, who do you believe is against you_?'

Sylvia shrugged uncertainly.

Isaac glanced around the room, and he sent her the gravest of expressions. Sylvia furrowed her eyebrows curiously at him.

' _There are rumors.'_ He signed. ' _Tabitha Galavan and Butch Gilzean._ '

Sylvia rolled her eyes. Isaac touched her shoulder, insisting she listen to him.

Isaac signed more urgently, ' _There's talk on the coast. They're going to recruit people, and once they get enough people, they will try to take over._ '

Sylvia spoke calmly, forgetting her hands, "Tabitha is the reason Butch is the way he is. I doubt they'd be working together."

' _You'd be surprised'_ , Isaac returned. ' _Love is a powerful thing._ '

"Love _is_ a powerful thing," Sylvia returned gently. "If it's reciprocated."

' _I don't know how deep their love is...but I do know—for a fact—that they are working together. In whatever terms, it won't be good for you. Or any of us.'_

Sylvia nodded in agreement while Isaac smiled sadly. He reached around and hugged her; she let him do so, but didn't return the display of endearment. He shook her hand; she shook it back, and he clicked his tongue; on command, his two associates followed him out of the mansion.

Gabe approached her from the sidelines, and said curiously, "What was that all about?"

"A conversation about the weather," Sylvia half-joked.

"Must be a bad one then."

Sylvia glanced at him, uncertain as to whether he was seriously playing dumb or just joining in on the inside joke. Earning not a helping clue from him, Sylvia assumed the best that he was joking with her. He could be a source of entertainment, even if things were looking down.

As the Families dispelled, Sylvia drank her tea. She felt a hand on her shoulder; she turned and smiled when she saw that it was Victor Zsasz.

"I guess I missed the show," Victor drawled monotonously.

Sylvia placed her cup of tea on the table.

"There wasn't any show."

"True. But anytime you give it to the youngest Anderson, I think it's pretty funny," Victor admitted, smirking at her.

He leaned against the fireplace, in his black attire with his arms crossed over his chest.

"How did it go?"

"Like you said it would."

"Did he 'fess up?"

"He folded like a towel."

"I'm not shocked." Victor sighed, rolling his eyes. "The man's a weasel."

"I agree. And thanks again," Sylvia said, grinning widely. "I figured he was another who was trying to weaken me, but I had to be sure."

"You've never needed validation before doing something." Victor chortled. "Having a little self-doubt, are you?"

Sylvia lifted a marble statue from the mantle, took the hundred-dollar bill that was underneath, and handed it to Victor, saying, "Normally, Oswald would be here to tell me whether I should or should not kill. With him gone, I need to be more certain of things. Here…."

"You're paying me?" Victor asked incredulously, looking at the money.

She nodded. "It's the agreed amount. You broke into my office on a day I wasn't expecting you to."

"Because you asked me to."

"And I'm giving you something for helping me out."

"I thought I was just doing you a favor, but thank you." He pocketed the cash. "You know, you could have just told Anderson that someone broke into your office…without having someone actually break into your office."

"I wouldn't have been nearly as pissed off."

"You could have lied. Gotten away with it."

"Yes, I could have," said Sylvia, shrugging a shoulder carelessly. "But the emotion wouldn't be there."

Victor took a seat in Sylvia's (and what could be Oswald's) chair, sitting in it backwards. He grinned up at her when she stood in front of him; her back to the fireplace, her eyes meeting his directly.

"He admits to doing something he knows he didn't do," Victor said lazily. "Sounds like someone has a guilty conscience."

"He may never have done it, but he's thought about doing it."

"Just to get his hands on Jim's folder?"

"Mm-hm."

"It wouldn't help him."

Sylvia chuckled, "I know, right? Half of the crap Jim has done isn't even written down."

Victor watched Sylvia move throughout the room. She was searching for something. As though he read her mind, Victor called her name; she turned and he threw a pack of cigarettes to her.

"Thanks," Sylvia said gratefully, breathing out a deep sigh. "Mr. Bell has taken to hiding them from me."

"Can't say I blame him. You've been going through those pretty fast."

"Not without good reason."

"Have you tried just killing someone? That's what I normally do when I feel tense." Victor offered. "Well…." He smirked. "That and a few other things."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Victor." She chided, but she had a hard time suppressing her own smile. "If I could, I'd kill a lot of people, but I'm flying below the radar at the moment. And sex is off the table."

Victor shrugged, "Well, if you're ever taking volunteers…."

"I'll be sure you're no where near me."

Victor and Sylvia exchanged knowing smiles.

Sylvia pulled a stick from the pack, placing it between her lips.

She handed the pack to Victor, who took it gracefully and placed it inside his inner pocket.

He never smoked a cigarette in his life; he just liked having them in any case he needed to assuage his work-wife of the more minor conflicts in her life—like having no cigarettes. She placed the cigarette briefly against the flames in the fireplace and when the embers smoked, she withdrew it and took a long, deep drag, smiling a little when the nicotine filled her system.

"Have a seat, Liv. Take a breath," said Victor as he stood from the chair on which he'd been sitting on so she could have her seat back.

It was his turn to lean against the fireplace. His laugh sobered as she did.

"So…." Victor began. "Breaking into your office was easy enough of a task. What's next?"

"Nothing for you, at this moment."

"Drake admitted to conspiring against you. _That_ warrants a killing, doesn't it?"

"So eager," Sylvia teased. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves."

Victor accepted her soft criticism, however cared to emphasize: "But he _is_ a problem."

"Yes. He is."

"So?"

"'So' nothing. I could strip him down, show him what I have on him, but that'll only cause the other families to become paranoid—and the Andersons will grow bitter. Bitter enough to hold up arms and come after me. And I don't need that kind of toxicity just yet. I don't need another gang war. I've already been through one of those, and it wasn't pleasant."

"So you're not worried about Anderson? 'For the moment'. Got it. But I saw you miming with Isaac Paddock. Wanna tell me what that was all about?"

"The weather."

"I call 'bullshit'," He declared. "Paddock's smart. For one thing, he has no ears." He touched his own. "So he's observant."

Sylvia remained silent, taking another long drag of her cigarette. She flicked the ashes into the tray in front of her while the hitman stayed nonchalant.

It was a known fact that the two of them used to conspire together; once upon a time, they were contract buddies. They shared a work relationship, and that friendship had been established and deeply rooted. It was only a matter of time before Sylvia confessed to what was really eating her on the inside. Victor was patient enough to wait.

"He told me a rumor." Sylvia finally spoke.

Victor sat down beside her, in one of the chairs, scooting it forward to the table.

"Rumors are fun," He said with a hungry gaze. "What has he heard?"

"Tabitha Galavan."

"The sister?"

"Mm-hmm. Her and Butch. They're trying to recruit people, and then—allegedly – they'll come for me."

"Galavan and Gilzean," chuckled Victor. "That's not a match made in heaven."

"I wouldn't have believed it. But considering the source…."

"Yeah, Paddock isn't one for gossip."

"Yeah, and he wouldn't have told me if he didn't think it was true."

"Can't really say it is true until you see it for yourself," Victor reminded. "You know Gotham."

"Better than anyone, I daresay."

"So what's the plan for them?"

"I don't have one."

" **I** have one," Victor suggested.

"You can't kill them."

"It'd save you a lot of time and energy."

"Yes, but it would also make me look like a paranoid psychopath if I just killed _everyone_."

"Liv, Tabitha Galavan killed your mother-in-law, and Butch Gilzean is….well, _Butch Gilzean_." Victor mused carefully. "Murder seems justifiable."

"I'm not looking for justice right now. I'm looking for balance. For control. That's what I need. The others can wait."

Victor sighed, "Come on, Liv. Let me go to work. I can clear this up for you really quick. You **know** me."

"I said the others can wait. _Don't_ do anything."

Victor sat back in his chair: "You're a lot less fun since you've taken over."

"Trust me. If I could give it up knowing the empire wouldn't crumble under someone else's control, I would do it in a hot second."

"Anderson seems like he's prepared to take it over."

"Anderson is hotheaded."

"So are you."

"I'm hotheaded but _smart_ ," Sylvia reminded, winking at him.

"You never used to be so tactical."

"You're right. I have Oswald to thank for that. He's taught me a great deal."

"Hopefully, he's taken a few things from you too."

"Such as?"

Victor smirked, "Killing people in general."

"He's killed people before."

"His killing people isn't the same." He said, sounding disappointed. "He does it out of impulse."

"So do I."

"But you do it beautifully. It's an art show; you are the artist, the blood of your enemies is the medium, and Gotham….that's your canvas."

"Stop buttering me up, Zsasz. We're not having sex."

Victor stood up, shrugging carelessly as he said, "Worth a shot."

He moved behind her chair and kissed her briefly on the exposed skin of her shoulder. She smiled at him.

"If you need anything, call me." Victor offered. "You know where to find me."

"Thank you."

"No problem, Liv."

He patted the same shoulder and then left the mansion, leaving Sylvia alone to gather her thoughts. She put the cigarette out, throwing it into the fireplace. The embers barely recognized the intrusion, only glowing a minute brighter before dulling back to its usual orange flame.

Tabitha Galavan and Butch Gilzean. If they dared to contest her for the empire that she and Oswald had built, let them. Sylvia would be more than happy to give them a taste of their own medicine.

**Chapter 3: Ed Wants To Help**

Sylvia was performing on stage. She wore a deep ocean blue dress, the sleeves ending in a triangular cuff so the tip of the shape slipped over her middle finger like a ring. The dress did nothing to hide her bare milky white shoulders; accentuating her fine collar bone was a gold chain, a single pearl pendant hanging a few inches just above the exposed flesh of her valley. The shoulder-length crimson locks were pulled into a fashionable bun, weaves of sapphire and emerald pins speckled through them.

It was a Friday night, the one day out of the week where she could forget that she was the ruler of the Underworld; that her life was always on the brink of falling into chaos; that her husband was somewhere on the streets, avoiding the police and in hiding.

It was the only night that Sylvia felt like herself, the person she really was, and that was an entertainer.

She sang in all tones—the low, feminine timbres that could be felt in the depth of her chest to the high-pitched Soprano notes that rang and vibrated beautifully into the microphone. One of her hands held said microphone, her eyes closed as she vocalized to her heart's content.

The chatter in the crowd died, as the audience listened. Beer bottles stopped clattering; the ladies in the back ceased to titter at the drunken manly slobs that surrounded the diner like wallpaper border. The staff, including Gabriel, Dagger, Chilly, Delilah, and Brittany, remained content to listen.

The rush hour of Gotham's traffic during the seven o'clock toll seemed miles and miles away.

When Sylvia's last note rang, the listeners held onto it.

She smiled and spoke into the microphone: "Thank you all for listening. Now…." She gestured to the sidelines. "I must welcome Jacob Tradoll. He's been renowned so far as Gotham's most highly recommended comedian. Let's give him a hand, huh?"

In appreciation of her as well as welcoming the new entertainment, the crowd clapped loudly.

Sylvia strode off the stage. Delilah was the first to congratulate her on another Friday night done well.

"You were spectacular," She enthused.

"Beautiful!" Brittany squeaked, hugging Sylvia around the middle.

"Good singer, as always. No competition there," said Chilly.

Gabe said, "I never get tired of hearing you sing, Liv."

"Me neither," Dagger agreed.

"You all are sweet." Sylvia said, thanking them gracefully.

She walked to the bar and was a little taken aback to see Edward Nygma sitting on a pew. He'd gone as far as ordering a drink: a grasshopper, of all things. More or less content, Ed smiled widely when Sylvia approached him.

"I didn't expect to see you here…of all places." She stated, sitting on a stool beside him. "I'd wager this is a friendly visit?"

"Of course."

"Oh thank fucking god." She sighed in relief. "I thought maybe...you know, I have no idea what I was thinking. For a moment there…um…Well, it doesn't matter. How've you been?"

Ed turned to her—body and all. It looked as though he'd just gotten off work. His clothes didn't look any different from when she last saw him, albeit, that confidence of his had never left. His hair was smoothed back, with gel perhaps, and a cool smile stayed at the forefront of his expression. Sylvia minded his calm.

"How come you're here?"

"I thought, for once, I'd come see _you_."

"Well, I'm here." Sylvia returned, chuckling.

"I meant _outside_ of work." Ed cared to clarify. "Well, my work. We only seem to run into each other when you come to the GCPD or if Penguin is dying."

"Well, there was that one time when you came to see me in the hospital."

"I would prefer to meet you under circumstances that are better than life-threatening."

"It's Gotham; you might be asking for too much. Between business and life-threatening circumstances, I don't think you have much of a choice."

"Perhaps, but I figure we could have something in between."

Sylvia nodded, considering his offer.

She looked at Brittany, who had become all too familiar with that certain expression; the blonde started mixing a drink, and placed a glass of pink liquid in front of her boss.

Silent, but obedient.

Sylvia thanked her with an appreciative smile.

"Come with me." She said to Ed, giving him little time to object as she stood and walked up the stairs; he followed Sylvia to her office. She closed the door after he came inside, and she gestured to the chair in front of her desk.

Ed took a seat. Never in all his years did he believe he'd be sitting in this kind of club, with its reputation for bad characters. Then again, he wasn't so good anymore...was he?

Sylvia sat at her desk after gathering and piling a few books on top of one another, and placing them in the bottom drawer of her desk. Ed noticed the discreet way she kept things from him—her criminal activities, what she was working on, that sort of thing. It was like she still only saw him as Edward Nygma: Forensics. Not the Edward that had killed a cop, his girlfriend, and that no-body in the woods.

Ed frowned a little. Sylvia noticed.

"So," She said lightly. "You want something that's in between life-threatening situations and talking to you at work."

"Yes. I would."

"Seems doable."

"Quite."

"So let's talk about that, shall we?" She offered, gesturing to him. "There _is_ something we must discuss first before we do."

"Is there?"

"Yes. And that's the fact we both know you have feelings for me."

"But that shouldn't get in the way of our friendship."

"Friendship is hard to come by...especially in Gotham. But romantic feelings muddy things up. It can drive a wedge between two friends."

"I agree with that, one-hundred percent."

"You do, do you?"

"Emphatically."

"Well, if that's case. I guess the only question to ask is: what do _you_ want, Ed?"

"I want friendship."

Sylvia took a drink from her glass and then placed it on the desk, her eyes lingering on the succulent pink before lifting them to meet Ed's stoic gaze.

"Do you not believe me?" He questioned, noticing her skepticism.

"I believe you. But I think there's something else you want to say."

"Something like what?"

"You came to my club," Sylvia said, her voice steadily growing suspicious. "I feel like you came here with another premise other than to ask me for something more than just my friendship. That's why you came, isn't it? That's why you're here?"

He didn't give any sign that she was correct, but he must've had a tell. Because she smiled knowingly.

"You're smart, Ed. But you're forgetting something."

Ed allowed himself a cool half-smile.

He said cleverly, "What could I be forgetting, Liv?"

"That I'm pretty fucking perceptive. And I _know_ a little white lie when I hear one."

Ed smiled again but it was accidental. He cleared his throat, albeit nervously. His true self was there, but that nervous side of him was too.

"It's true. Selfishly, there is nothing that I want more than to be _more_ than just friends," Ed said calmly, ignoring the soft shaking in his voice.

"Ed…."

"But you said so yourself," He interrupted her. Insistently. "You and I have a lot in common. Riddles, jokes, an interesting friendship with Penguin—"

"—Not just friendship. Remember, Ed? I'm married."

"Of course. And I haven't forgotten."

Sylvia took another sip of her drink, gesturing for him to continue.

He said furtively, "I want to be there for you. More than not."

"But you _have_ been there for me. You helped Oswald when he needed to be nursed back to health. You helped me so much in the past—I could have been lost without you. You've been a wonderful friend, an ally that I can trust. And trust is so hard to find in the city."

"I don't mean just 'there for you' as a friend."

"Ed…."

"No! _No_! Damn it…." Ed grunted, rubbing his face in frustration. "I don't mean it that way! Look….just…." He leaned forward, taking Sylvia's unoccupied hand in between his. "I don't pretend to know what your life is like, what this" (he gestured to the club scene and villainous lifestyle in general) "is like for you, but I _do_ know that I want to be a part of it….and I know you're lost right now…." He was silent for only a second before he quickly added, "Without Penguin, I mean."

Sylvia stared at him. "Ed, you're not making _any_ sense."

"I know I'm not." He muttered irritably.

He sat back in his chair.

"I understand your principles. I know what they are. And I am not asking you to break them. But I want to be there for you, in more ways than you could possibly imagine, in ways that even _I_ don't understand. Penguin taught me a lot, told me a lot of things, but it's one thing to do something in theory—quite another to do it in practice."

"Let me stop you right there." Sylvia said quietly, taking her hand from his. "Are you telling me….you _want_ to help me rule the Underworld? Is that what you're saying."

"Yes." Ed breathed, more relieved than anything that she was able to understand what he meant. "That's it. I swear."

"Ed, that's a _lot_ to take on. Even for a man of your intelligence." Sylvia said, gesturing to him.

Ed smiled in spite of himself, saying, "You think I'm capable, don't you?"

"More than capable, yes. But you are the GCPD."

"I'm only Forensics."

"I know that. Regardless, you're the GCPD." Sylvia insisted. "You are part of its entity."

"I'm a whole other entity."

Sylvia ignored his inflated ego, saying, "Do you have any idea of how much fucking trouble this could get you in. The implications _alone_?"

"I'm a lot cleverer than what you're giving me credit for," Ed offered indignantly. "I'm _more_ than capable of working under the GCPD's nose. They don't even have the slightest idea what I have done."

"They don't know about Kristen?"

"If they did, I'd know about it."

"You eliminated any evidence linking yourself to Kristen."

"I'd consider that a big highlight on my criminal resume. Killing her…."

"It's barely a blip on the radar."

"She was my girlfriend."

"So fine—she was your girlfriend. She went missing for _how_ long, now? A few days? A few weeks? And no one has bothered to ask you about her whereabouts, where she went, or what happened to her?" Sylvia asked curiously.

"She was a big part of the GCPD."

"She was a _records custodian_. Not exactly the Mayor of Gotham, Ed. Her murder isn't profile-worthy. I'm pretty sure that once any of the officers get ahold of her missing portfolio, they'll start getting close to you. And they _will_ start suspecting you. And what then?"

Ed frowned: "What's your point?"

"You want to rule an _empire_. Eventually, e _veryone_ will know what and who you are," Sylvia said tiredly. "You're operating calmly under your conditions because no one suspects a thing. Once they do, you'll start folding under the pressure."

"Do you even hear yourself?" Ed questioned, crossing his arms.

"Don't get so defensive," She scoffed. "I'm pointing out the facts."

"And those facts are what exactly?"

Sylvia leaned back in her chair, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her index finger and thumb.

She looked at him with the same tired expression: "The GCPD doesn't think you're qualified to be a criminal. I've seen the way they interact with you—the lawyer, Captain Barnes, the other officers…even Jim."

"And that would make me even more inconspicuous, would it not?" Ed pointed out coolly. "Like I said…you're giving me _no_ credit."

"I'm giving you full credit. You're a very intelligent man, smarter than most." (Ed grinned in appreciation for the compliment.) "No one is questioning your intellect. Or your capability. It's a question of morals."

"I don't have any morals."

"Oh, you do." Sylvia reassured, smirking at him. "They're just misplaced. Becoming a part of the Underworld isn't like applying for a job. It's a lifestyle."

"What if I said I didn't have a life?"

"You go home and watch TV by yourself, while you solve crossword puzzles and do Sudoku. It's not an eventful lifestyle, but you _do_ have a life, Ed. And people in Gotham talk…especially the people in the Narrows. Working in the GCPD, you will be implicated, then arrested, and then convicted. If you weren't in the GCPD, it would probably be a whole other story. But this life is not for you."

"I'm aware of that," Ed answered, an irritation hiding just beneath the surface. "If I can't be a part of it, then I want to be a part of _yours_."

"No."

"No?"

"I'm saying 'no'." Sylvia said darkly. She rubbed her temple with her fingertips. "It's a grand offer. Don't get me wrong—I would _love_ some help that didn't come in the form of curvy blonde roots or grunge-y brutes. Your brain is like a treasure chest full of ideas, I'm sure." (Again, Ed grinned at the compliment.) "But…I hope you know it comes from a calm, sweet place when I tell you that I can't have you work with me."

Ed stared at her, a little hurt by that.

" _Now_ who's letting their feelings get in the way of our friendship," He said, passive-aggressively.

Sylvia looked at him sternly.

"I like you, Ed. Just like we both know you have feelings for me, I can't deny that I have feelings for you too. But they're not supposed to be there. I'm married." Sylvia insisted calmly. "Having you around me—working in this kind of environment, seeing you everyday—I know what would happen."

"What _would_ happen?" Ed questioned. A tinge of hope in his voice.

Sylvia detected it and she said, "It doesn't matter."

"You need my help, Liv." Ed said urgently, standing to his feet. "You can run this operation single-handedly—there's no doubt about that—but you're slowly breaking. You'll run yourself to the ground."

Sylvia stood too.

She placed her hands on the desk, ignoring her fast-beating heart, the way her stomach rolled pleasantly when she saw the way Ed was looking at her: protectively. They were staring each other down, like wolves circling the den to claim its territory.

"You said you wanted to help me, to be there for me." She said with forced calm. "Be here for me now, and please leave my office."

"Why do you look like I might hurt you?"

"I don't think you would hurt me. But it'd probably be better if I thought you could."

"There's something between us, Liv. You have to admit that. _At least that_."

"I _have_ admitted it!"

"Then say it."

"I can't."

"Stop denying what you want!"

"I don't want _you_!"

Ed stared at her, taken aback by her outburst.

Sylvia stared at him incredulously and she snapped, "I love Oswald, **Ed**! You're placing me in one hell of a fucking situation. You think you're helping me? You're not!"

Ed stepped back a pace when she rounded the table.

"I have feelings for you—of course, I do—and I've admitted it. But I love Oswald; it's not fair to him. I've said before: Friendship is all that I can offer to you. If that's not something you can accept, then as I have said before—maybe it is best that we aren't friends!" Sylvia said helplessly.

Ed stepped back, watching her advance.

"Liv, there must be a way…."

"There _is_ no way!" Sylvia snapped. "You want me to be brutally honest, then fine. You want me to choose between you and Oswald? I choose him. I will _always_ choose him. My god, if I knew you were going to behave this way, I'd have never told you how I felt about you!"

Ed gulped, taking a few more paces back.

He thought he'd steered clear from her just enough until his back hit the window blinds of the door behind him. Sylvia grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, shoving him further into it. The pain might have hurt if he was feeling anything short of it, but Ed was distracted by the heat of her eyes.

"I'm trying my best to keep this fucking empire running," Sylvia said harshly. "Trying my best to look like I've got my shit together, but it's all a _fucking_ lie! And once I think I have my fucking ducks in a row, you come here, talking about running a kingdom with me, getting neck-deep into this criminal shit! Why the _hell_ did you come to me if all you were going to do is just piss—" (She pulled him forward so she could slam his back into the door) " _me_ " (she did it again) " **off**!"

"Liv, I know you're angry at me—"

"—Damn right I'm angry—"

"—But you have to listen to me—"

Sylvia let him go, and stormed across the room. Hearing him, she whirled around, snapping, "Why the hell should I listen!"

"Listen to _reason—_ "

Then Sylvia blinked, looking at him. Eyes wide. Lips parted slightly in disbelief.

" _Are_ you a voice of reason, Ed?" Sylvia questioned, approaching him slowly. "Want to be my voice of reason, of logic, of practicality? Fine. Talk. Reason with me! Are you going to calm me down, huh? Going to make everything all better, tell me it's okay? Wanna try it! TRY IT!"

She lifted a hand, perhaps to slap him, to punch him, to push him out the door. Whatever the reason, she didn't get far.

Ed caught that hand. Infuriated by his interruption, Sylvia lifted the other; Ed caught that one too. He switched places with her, and pushed her against the door instead; if anything, just to restrain her until she stopped trying to attack him. She looked up at him, familiar fire in those eyes.

The heat. That rage.

Forget morals. Forget principles.

Ed shoved his mouth against Sylvia's, daring to die tonight. For a second, Ed was certain _she_ had died. Her hands stopped fighting his, her body has stopped struggling.

Sylvia's mind was blank, so her body was thinking for her.

Soft lips on hers, a calculating tongue that licked her bottom lip and once achieving an open invitation, it entreated between them. Languid movements, gentle strokes of his tongue along her own….a quiet sigh of relief—did the sigh come from him or did it come from her?

She wasn't sure.

And then her mind starting turning gears. Guilt and anger shot through her. Sylvia pushed against him, freeing her wrists from his slackened grasp. She glowered at him.

Ed looked surprised, but was soon too quickly spun up on what was just about to happen.

"Get out." Sylvia ordered lowly.

"Liv—"

"I said ' _get out_ '." Sylvia repeated.

Ed bit his bottom lip. There was a different type of danger radiating from her. A danger that he wasn't too ready to face. Quickly, Ed left the office, leaving behind his grasshopper drink. Sylvia rubbed her hands together, then touched her forehead, then her temples. Her stomach started grumbling uncomfortably; her head was pounding with a new headache.

"Men." Sylvia groaned.

**Chapter 4: Cobblepot Is Caught**

He thought he'd finished running once he had become King of Gotham. Apparently, once a criminal, one's legs never truly stopped running.

Oswald stood over an open fire in a barrel in an alley, hovering near and around it were other unfortunate souls who'd had a bad rap in this world. He couldn't very well say that he was 'homeless'. Speaking politically correct, he had a mansion with a beautiful wife, and—from the looks of reading newspapers—she was still running things. On the surface, it appeared as though she was doing well. However, Oswald knew that Sylvia was likely hanging by her nails.

He couldn't go back though. He knew the moment he set foot in that mansion, that's when the police would arrest him. Oswald wouldn't care to be arrested, taking credit for what his wife had accomplished, putting Galavan's death under his belt, but Capt. Barnes had it in for Sylvia. He'd find a way to sew her onto his sentence to Black Gate. 'Aiding and abetting, harboring'—even if the evidence pointed to Sylvia being completely innocent.

Well, not _completely_. After all, she'd held the gun to Galavan's head.

Oswald put his hand over the open fire. He was dressed from head to toe in the clothes he could find on the street. Better to look the part, right?

A man beside him softly spoke to himself. About the weather. About Gotham's history. And whether that sweet old lady would come to the park again to give out freshly baked cookies to the homeless. Supposedly, that was. Oswald had been on the streets for nearly a month and he'd yet to see this alleged woman handing out anything besides old bird seed.

Perhaps the self-chatting man was psychotic. Oswald didn't care to know. Instead, he kept walking, kept his head down, never minding the other people that gave him a wide berth. He wasn't the best smelling character—lord knew he had an odor about him by now. Maybe that would help him blend in with the lesser hygienic community.

Oswald chuckled to himself. That was a funny joke, he thought. No one laughed—then again, he'd made a point to remain optimally quiet as possible.

Sylvia would have laughed, he thought. Sylvia laughed at all his jokes.

"What's eating _you_."

Oswald startled, hearing someone actually talk to him. He was relieved to see that it was same old bum from the days before, the one that had talked about the woman and the fresh baked cookies. The same one that always talked to himself.

Oswald glanced him over, noticing that the man was dressed very much like him.

Worn, tattered pants. A too-big overcoat. Brownish black fingerless gloves—used to be light brown until the grime and soot of the fire and streets started seeping in. A red beanie on the man's head; Oswald's was of the same color. Perhaps all of these clothes had been once donated to charity—a bulk of clothes by one organization; a company who thought to shell out a few bucks at the Dollar Store before opting into a new irrigation system.

Who knew, anymore.

Oswald saw the man still staring at him.

"You're not much for words, are you, son?" The bum muttered; his voice was hard to understand, like a voice box that had been through the grinder one too many times, and it sometimes disappeared so Oswald might hear every other word or so.

Either way, he detected the sincerity in the old man's voice. Or what sounded like it.

"Just thinking of old times," Oswald said, appeasing the man with an answer.

The old man nodded, as though the same statement was his own.

"Sometimes," the man said, "I think of my family. Particularly….around this time when the….is pretty bad, like a storm...coming around. It's gonna rain….about a day or so, I hear. Rain...always flushes out the bad, and….bad always seems to come right….right back in. Know what I'm saying?"

"I suppose so," Oswald answered, nodding.

"Got family, son?"

Oswald nodded again.

"What are they like?" He asked.

"She's beautiful." Oswald answered.

"Wife?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sounds beautiful already," the old man said, giving him a toothy smile. The old man's teeth were already gone, with the exception of a single tooth on the front. Half a buck tooth, it looked like.

"She is."

"What's she do?"

"She sings."

"Arias?"

"Mostly," Oswald answered.

"Is she still alive?"

Oswald considered telling the old man the truth, but he couldn't trust someone he'd just met. Maybe not even the people who'd been working for him for more than a year.

"Not anymore." Oswald lied, looking at the ground with faux sadness. The sadness wasn't all pretend; he missed her greatly, after all.

"That's a shame." The old man said. "What's her name?"

"Diana."

"Beautiful name."

"Yes, it is." Oswald said, smiling. It wasn't Sylvia's first name. Her middle name was Diana. But there was an honesty there, and that's the most that Oswald could offer this friendly man. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Any family?" Oswald asked curiously.

"Just a wife," he said.

"A wife?"

"Yeah."

"What's her name?"

"Diana." The old man answered, sending Oswald a tongue-in-cheek grin. "And she sings arias too. Mostly, when I'm boinking her."

Oswald suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. It looked like the old man was having a laugh. At this point, the sincerity was gone, and Oswald was no longer in the mood to appease. He took his walking stick that had been leaning against the barrel of fire, and started walking onward. His other cane, the black one with the penguin silver handle, was back at the mansion. With good and obvious reason, he'd left that one behind.

A moment later, Oswald bumped into someone. He started apologizing, then realizing it was an officer, he mentally slapped himself.

So frustrated with the old man that Oswald hadn't watched where he was going. He walked himself right into a police officer. One that looked way too happy when he saw who he was. Oswald didn't even bother to escape when the police officer grabbed his arm, and said, "Wowie—I can't believe my luck! Barnes is gonna give me a full week off when he sees what I've found!"

Oswald went without a fuss into the police car. Officer What's-His-Face contacted the GCPD station, and there was a lot of back-and-forth before they resigned to the fact that Oswald Cobblepot had been caught after evading the law for exactly thirty-two days. A good record, an admirable one, really.

Meeting them at the front of the station was Capt. Nathaniel Barnes, and the Strike Force. Once Oswald was shuffled out of the police car, Capt. Barnes gruffly took him by the elbow and said, "We caught you now, Cobblepot."

Oswald used his right to remain silent and said nothing back. What good was it anyway?

As he was pulled through the door, there was a lot of clapping and cheering that greeted him through the doors. The police—civilian clothes or not—were clapping, and all happy….Barnes looked annoyed. And he showed it.

"SILENCE!" Barnes bellowed. Everyone stopped applauding. "What are you, a bunch of _cheerleaders_! This is not a _game_! This is our job!"

As he moved through the room to put Oswald behind bars, he continued scolding: "And this…specimen…this is just one sad, pathetic skell. There are plenty like him. _Plenty_."

Oswald sent Barnes a salty look as he started walking away. People were still staring at him. Oswald sighed exasperatedly.

"That's right, stare all you want!" Oswald told them. "Big whoop! You got me. I'm cool."

An officer took off the handcuffs and then unceremoniously shoved him in the cell.

"It's all good!" Oswald said, glaring at him.

And the door was slammed shut. Despite his situation, Oswald wondered if Sylvia was doing better than him.

It wasn't much longer before Oswald was pulled into another room. The interrogation room, in particular. He sat in the chair on side of the metal table, glancing at his own reflection which looked back at him from the two-way mirror.

Ten or fifteen minutes passed before Capt. Barnes entered the room, closing the door behind him.

"All right, Cobblepot," he sighed.

He pulled the empty chair to him, sitting on it backwards, opposite of Oswald. Barnes looked to be three times as big as the chair, and it would have been comical if Oswald hadn't been feeling less than up to par.

"Tell me what happened at Galavan's that night."

"Well…." Oswald drawled. "A lot of things happened."

"Why don't you start with the moment right after you knocked me out with that vase." Barnes said gruffly.

"I'm sorry about that. Such an _exquisite_ vase."

Barnes said stiffly, "This is my amused look. Now, keep talking."

"I took Galavan to the river and I killed him. _Slowly_."

"You confess to murder?"

"Yes, I do. Proud of it." Oswald responded calmly. "I'm not a criminal, you know. I'm just….insane." A small smile reached his lips.

"Well, your far better half would say otherwise."

Oswald tilted his head to the side, curious. Then he realized that Barnes was talking about Sylvia.

Wasn't it great how she always made her way into the conversation, no matter how great or little her involvement was?

Oswald put his hands on the table, to show that not only was he not at all disarmed by Barnes' subtle way of mentioning his wife, but so he could touch the wedding band on his hand. Mindful of his thoughtful ministrations as he turned the band with his right hand, thinking of not just his next few words but also of her memory.

Sylvia wasn't dead. But it'd been a long time since he saw her. A month seemed like years to him.

"My better half?" Oswald said, playing naive.

"Your wife."

"Mmm."

"She's admitted that you and her are criminals. Not very law-abiding."

"She speaks poetically," Oswald offered. "She has a Shakespearean humor, if you haven't figured that one out."

"She was there?"

"Where?"

"With you, that night. You, Galavan, and Sylvia."

"She didn't come with me to the river." Oswald said simply. "She wanted to stay with her brother."

"What did James Gordon do?"

"What did he do when?"

Patiently—but sternly—the captain said, "What did he do after you knocked me out?"

"What does he say he did?"

"I'm asking _you_." Barnes said dangerously, looking like he might bust a gut.

"He stayed behind," said Oswald. "A couple of my associates and I were able to elude Detective Gordon; we brought Galavan to the river, and I beat him with a baseball bat. After that, I shot him in the head."

"Sylvia Cobblepot?"

"What about her?"

"She didn't come with you?"

"I said she didn't."

"Jim, himself, said she has an 'unflinching loyalty' towards you," said Barnes coolly. "Like Bonnie and Clyde. I've yet to see her ever choose James over you. She wouldn't stay behind."

Oswald smiled, saying, "That doesn't sound like a question, Captain."

"More or less a statement of the fact," Barnes returned coldly. "You're telling me that your wife—this woman that has an incredible reputation for okaying everything you do—didn't come with you to the river to see Galavan die. That doesn't sound like her."

"She chose to stay with Detective Gordon," Oswald reiterated.

"And you were fine with that?"

"She wanted to be with her brother. I wouldn't stop her from seeing him."

"And she _didn't_ get involved."

"Get involved with….?"

"Killing Galavan."

"No. She wasn't involved." Oswald clarified, smiling in spite of Barnes' look of frustration.

"And you killed him. Alone."

"Yes, I did."

"Why do I have a hard time believing that?" Barnes breathed through flaring nostrils.

"I don't know, Captain. That sounds like a personal issue only you can figure out." Oswald answered smartly, clapping himself on the back to see Barnes become that much more irritable.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe you _are_ insane." Barnes growled. He stood, adding, "Get used to a room this size, Cobblepot. That's where you'll be for the next ten years."

Oswald frowned, watching Barnes leave the room.

Jim sat in the Captain's office, feeling more nervous than comfortable. Most of the cops were happy that Penguin had been caught. Jim couldn't feel the same cheer.

What if Barnes broke Penguin? What if Penguin gave up that Sylvia had killed Galavan? Or even….what if Penguin divulged that Jim himself had been present when Sylvia had killed him. He'd already denied having been at the scene of a crime countless times!

Jim reassured himself of the facts. One: Penguin….no….Oswald Cobblepot loved his sister. Penguin and Oswald were the same person, but Oswald Cobblepot was whom Sylvia fell in love with. Not the King of Gotham. The Umbrella Boy. The same person—if Jim wasn't mistaken—would gladly die before placing Sylvia in a position where she would have to go to Black Gate.

Sylvia was tough. Tougher than Jim, himself. But he couldn't imagine what kind of person would come out of those gates if she was ever let out. She'd be meaner, tougher….a killer born through the decade of constant beatings and lashings.

Jim could barely see Sylvia as the killer she was in the present. He still had a vision of her enjoying being a Girl Scout, or trying out for the Dance team. All crimson pony tails, and sugary smiles. Jim shuddered at the thought of her becoming something worse than the Penguin's co-conspirator. There was more at stake.

Back to the facts, Jim.

One: Oswald Cobblepot loved his sister. Two: Jim knew that Barnes would try to trip Penguin up with talking about Sylvia. There was no way Barnes wouldn't ask Penguin if she was involved.

Seeing—if anything—whether Oswald would corroborate the story Jim had told.

The story in which Sylvia was innocent, someone who had no involvement in the death of Theo Galavan.

Despite it all, Jim was certain that Oswald wouldn't put Sylvia at risk. If anything, Oswald would put the blame on _him_. Say that it wasn't Oswald nor Sylvia who held the gun, but that it was Jim that pulled the trigger. That wouldn't bode well for him on either account. The only positive outcome of that was that Sylvia would still be innocent, her crime covered up and brushed under the rug.

Either way, even if it did come to that, Jim would take his beating.

The door opened.

Jim suddenly stood, seeing Barnes standing in the doorway. It looked like he had received some bad news. His gaze was disappointedly staring back at him. Waiting for a confession.

"You've got something to tell me?" Barnes questioned.

A sly way for Jim to 'fess up. But he stuck to his story in any case Oswald did hold up his part of the bargain.

"No, sir. Nothing." Jim answered.

Barnes said calmly, "Well….Penguin backed your story."

"You mean he told the truth."

"Yes. That's what I am choosing to believe. It's good to have you back, James."

Barnes held out his hand. Jim began to shake it. But then Barnes pulled him forward, making Jim more tense than anything.

"I'm choosing to trust you, Jim. I'm trusting that you've told me what I needed to know, trusting _you._ Don't make a fool out of me. Got it?" Barnes said, his voice was dangerously quiet.

Jim nodded: "Yes, sir."

**Chapter 5: A Test Of Trust**

Chapter Five: A Test of Trust

Sylvia was in the bedroom, lying in bed, trying to sleep off a roaring headache. It had been two days—and it still hadn't abated. She could feel her brain smacking itself, like it was trying to break down a hidden door within her cranium. She grumbled when her cell phone started ringing and vibrating on her night stand. It was a simple ring tone but with her brain acting like a wrecking ball currently, the volume might as well had been magnetized by ten.

Without looking at the Caller ID, she answered flatly, " _What_."

"It's me."

Sylvia sighed, "Ed…why the fuck are you calling me…."

"I'm actually surprised you didn't hang up, or yell."

"I'm too tired to yell," Sylvia said, her voice was hoarse. "What the hell do you want?"

"They caught Penguin."

Suddenly, that headache seemed eons away as she abruptly snapped forward and placed the phone closer to her ear.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard correctly. They have him in a cell," Ed whispered.

"Where are _you_?"

"I'm in the M.E. lab."

"Why aren't you in _your_ lab?"

"The M.E. lab was the closest room without anyone in there," Ed answered flippantly. "Look, I'm sorry for what I did back in the club—I don't know what came over me—"

" **Ed**."

"I know, I know—that's not important right now—but I-I needed you to know that I'm sorry, okay?" He said quickly. His words were running together; it might have been indecipherable to many people, but for her, his words came out clear-cut. "They put him in a cell, looks like they're done interrogating him, although I don't know what they had to talk about. Couldn't have taken very long."

"Is Jim there?"

"When _isn't_ he here," Ed responded with a slight annoyance. She could see him rolling his eyes. "But he doesn't look disappointed, if that helps you any."

"I'm coming up there."

"Don't!" Ed said suddenly. He was quiet for a second and Sylvia could hear him talk to someone, "No, no, not you. Sorry, Captain…." His voice then became closer, as he spoke directly to her: "Sylvia, don't come to the station."

"They have my husband," Sylvia told him, getting to her feet and putting on her coat. "I have to see him."

"They won't let you near him, Liv—"

"That's never stopped me before."

"Liv…Liv— _Liv—_ "

Sylvia hung up, only realizing then that she had put her coat on over her PJs. With a sigh of exasperation, she stripped out of her pajamas and quickly threw on black sweat pants and a matching camisole. Fuck the jacket—it wasn't _that_ cold.

Sylvia got in her car and started towards the GCPD. The drive—if legal speed was taken into consideration—was about ten minutes. It only took her five to get to the station, park the car, and she strode through the double doors like the woman on a mission that she was.

The Desk Sergeant minded her, but didn't stop her from entering. Sylvia saw Oswald in the cell before she really knew that it was him. Her heart skipped a beat, seeing him so crestfallen. She didn't bring attention to herself, knowing if she made a spectacle then the Strike Force would be all too willing to throw her out—after all, the police officers in this sanctity only allowed her this much freedom due to her relationship with Jim Gordon. Otherwise, she was just like any other skell.

She made it to the bars, her fingers wrapping around the cold stone. Oswald didn't notice; his back was to her. She saw him through the bars, his right hand fiddling with the wedding band. It made her smile.

" _Oz."_

Hearing her voice, Oswald startled, turning around. Seeing her, his face lit up like a firework, a smile reaching his eyes. He held out his hands to touch her, his fingers stroking over the back of her hands.

"Pigeon!" He breathed, confused that she was there suddenly, but beyond happy to see her again.

Through the spaces of the cell, Sylvia moved her head so they kissed briefly. She noticed that he smelled less hygienic but then again, he'd been roaming the streets for a month, hadn't he? She ignored it, only grateful that she saw him again.

Oswald took her in—she had no make-up on, her hair was thrown into a messy bun, and she wore the black sweats and camisole, and black flats. Compared to how he last saw her (in high heels and a dress), she looked a little rough around the edges—not to mention the dark circles under her eyes—But he couldn't help falling in love with her all over again.

"You look beautiful," He said quietly.

"Thank you. You don't look too bad yourself. Even when you _are_ dressed in a crumb bum's clothes." Sylvia said, grinning broadly at him.

She glanced at the bars, as though she was just noticing them. A barrier. He glanced at them too, and suddenly the heart-felt moment became one of dire situations.

"What happened?" Sylvia asked gently.

"What always happens," Oswald said cynically, shrugging.

"They caught you, I can see that." Concern furrowed her eyebrows. "What's _going_ to happen."

"I don't know, honestly."

His eyes flitted past her shoulder to observe the police officers who glanced coolly at them.

"But…It sounds like they might send me to Black Gate. If not there, then…"

"Arkham?"

He didn't confirm it, although he allowed himself a small smile: "Tell them you're insane, and you can come with me."

"That's not even the least bit funny."

"No, it's not. But looks who's trying not to smile." Oswald said, pointing at her with his index finger.

"Is it definite?"

"I honestly don't know, Pet. I'm about ninety percent positive, here."

"Did they do anything other than interrogate you?"

"No."

"Good." Sylvia sighed with relief. "I was thinking the worst when I heard."

"The worst?"

"Beatings with batons…maybe worse than that. The police here aren't exactly all gleaming with glitter and gold, sweetheart."

"How did you find out that I was here?"

"Ed called me."

Oswald glanced at Ed, who was perusing the files in a large metal cabinet, which was right beside his cell. It was only then that Sylvia noticed his presence. To the police's ignorance, Oswald and Ed had been talking only just a moment ago before she had come in. Ed peeped over his documents, meeting her eyes before quickly resuming 'looking' through the files.

Sylvia glanced at Oswald, who returned the curious expression.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Pigeon?" He asked, glancing between her and Ed suspiciously.

"Yes, but I wouldn't discuss it now."

"This is probably going to be your _only_ chance to talk to me. We don't know what Arkham is like—aside from the rumors."

Sylvia bit her lip, glancing at Ed then said in a voice softer than a whisper, "Ed kissed me."

Oswald stared at her.

" _HE DID WHAT_!"

"Shh! Shhh-shh!" Sylvia hushed insistently. "If you cause a scene, baby, I won't be able to stay here much longer!"

Obviously, being the smart man that he was, Ed seemed to gather what was just discussed. He cleared his throat, saying aloud "Well, I found what I'm looking for, better get on back to the Forensics lab!" And then high tailed it away from curious stares.

"It meant nothing, Ozzie," Sylvia cooed, trying to calm him down.

"I _knew_ there was something going on between you two," He seethed, glaring at her.

" _Nothing_ is going on between us."

"Oh please," He hissed. "Back in the apartment? Those longing looks, that odd humor you two share. Give me a break. And don't you even _dare_ lie to me—"

"—Oz—"

"What a _grand_ opportunity you chose to tell me now!" Oswald continued harshly. "Right when I'm about to be committed! You have an _impeccable_ talent for timing, _don't_ you, Sylvia!"

"Keep your voice down," She snapped.

"It's true, then."

"What is?"

"You and Ed," Oswald uttered, nearly spitting.

"Fine," Sylvia said quickly. "Fine. Fine—it's true, I _did_ feel a type of way for him, but—Oswald, look at me—it's not what you think, I swear!"

Oswald stepped back from the bars so Sylvia couldn't touch him, hold onto him, do what she may. Oswald knew how they worked by now—any part of her touching him would send him flying right back to her. He needed to be away from her. The feeling of betrayal was just a little too much at this moment.

"Sylvia, you're the last person I would expect—"

"—Trust me, Oswald. I swear to god I didn't do _anything_."

"You _kissed_ him!"

" _He kissed_ **_me_**!" Sylvia fired back, pointing at the direction in which Ed had quickly left. "I said—I told him my heart belonged with you—and it still does! Oz, please...look at me, _please_!"

Jim stood on the stairwell, having heard his sister's pleas from above. He leaned over the banister shortly, noticing that the commotion had also started attracting curious folk. Sylvia wasn't the type to cause a scene—that was Oswald's forte.

Sylvia begged, "Please, look at me, Oswald. Look at me—you know me, can't you tell when I'm telling the truth."

He lifted his eyes from the ground and met hers. They were desperately looking back at him. She was reaching through the bar, her hand outstretched, a silent, last-ditch desperate plea to bring him back to her. After all, it was only a matter of time before Oswald would be carted away. He glanced at the other officers around them, and he turned his icy glare to Sylvia.

"Tell me the truth then," He said coldly, stepping towards her.

She grasped onto the bars, trying to get close—like she'd nearly melt through them like a hot poker through butter.

"Do you love him?" Oswald asked harshly.

"No." Sylvia whispered.

"Louder. So I can hear you."

"I don't love him," Sylvia said, her voice breaking. "I don't. I love _you_. I choose _you."_

Oswald frowned saying, "How can I believe that?"

"How can you _not_? You have me, Ozzie. You _can't_ lose me. Remember? Hell or High Water. Please, baby, you know how I feel about you. You **know** me! I'd never betray you; I'm not lying to you, I _swear_."

Tears ran down her cheeks. Her bottom lip quivered.

Oswald pressed his lips tightly together, uncertain. He could see more emotion on her face than he'd ever witnessed before. Desperation in her eyes, how frantic they appeared. Oswald was standing in a cage, about to be shipped to the loony bin, and it was Sylvia who looked like she'd just come out of it. Her arm extended through the bars, reaching for him again.

Oswald gulped.

He took a few steps towards her. Her hand touched his clothes.

Once she got a hold of him, she didn't let go. Then he stepped a few more paces forward, and she took his hands, placing one on her cheek, the other over her chest where her heart was beating frantically.

"I love you, baby." Sylvia uttered emotionally. "I love you."

Oswald looked at her and said quietly, "I'm doing this for you, Pigeon. You know that, right?"

"I do. I _do_." Sylvia said, nodding her head. "But even if you weren't, I'd still love you, Oswald. You're mine. You're _mine_."

Oswald reached through the bars, doing his best to embrace her. Hearing her possession, that tone; it elicited his forgiveness. Sylvia smiled, in spite of the warm tears that ran down her cheeks.

"You're still my girl?" Oswald said softly.

"Always," She returned, sniffling. "Always and forever."

"I love you, Pigeon."

"As I love you."

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE!" Barnes bellowed.

"So saith the Warden," Sylvia mumbled under her breath.

Oswald let out a chuckle, that was until Barnes came in between them, shoving Sylvia away from the cell. Jim came down the stairs quickly, and took Sylvia's arm, pulling her away from Barnes. She looked like she might attack him just for putting distance between her and Oswald.

"Just a friendly reunion between husband and wife," Jim said, clearing his throat when Barnes looked at him, ready to pounce.

"From all that hollering and drama I heard from the office, I doubt that, but okay," Barnes said irritably.

He glanced at Oswald. Then at Sylvia.

He said with finality, "Say your last good-byes, Cobblepots. Trust me. In Arkham, they keep the spouses apart for a _very_ long time. Let's see how long it takes before neither of you can recognize each other."

Barnes left the room and Sylvia glowered after him.

At that moment, an officer approached Oswald's cell, saying, "Turn away, face the cabinet—put your hands behind your back."

"What's happening?" Oswald asked. "Where are you taking me?"

"To Arkham, remember? You _are_ insane, aren't you?"

As Oswald was pulled through the station, he looked back at Sylvia. She bit her lip, looking after him. She offered a small smile. It was the last time he'd see her for a very long time—if what Barnes said was true. She wanted his last memory of herself to be smiling.

Once Oswald was in the van to leave for Arkham, Jim took Sylvia aside, back in the GCPD.

"What the hell was that all about?" Jim asked. "I could hear your conversation from the top floor."

"You mean 'your office'?" Sylvia chuckled, wiping her tear-stained cheeks with the pads of her thumbs. "I'm so sure you did."

"What had Penguin so riled up?" Jim asked, crossing his arms and leaning into Sylvia.

"I told him what happened the other day."

"Which is?"

"You don't need to know."

"Well, that's not how I see it. Penguin might find his way out of Arkham pretty easily—the man's a pragmatist. And the way he reacted, I'm thinking there's a life somewhere that'll be in danger. So please, enlighten me." Jim said through gritted teeth.

"Fine, you got a point. But you're not going to like it."

"Tell me anyway."

"Ed and I..."

Jim blinked: "Who?"

"Ed."

" _Ed_?" Jim repeated, looking at her incredulously. "Ed _Nygma_? What did he do?"

"He kissed me."

"HE DID WHAT!" Jim bellowed.

"JIM!" Barnes shouted. "WHAT IS IT NOW!"

"NOTHING, SIR!"

"THEN IF IT'S NOTHING, WHY THE HELL ARE YOU YELLING!"

"I LIKE TO MAINTAIN THIS TYPE OF VOLUME AT ALL TIMES, SIR!" Jim screamed back.

"WELL, USE YOUR INSIDE VOICE AT LEAST!" Barnes shouted. Then in his usual voice, he added, "Although I do appreciate the sentiment. Mrs. Cobblepot, I believe you were on your way out?"

"You know what, I think I was." Sylvia said, running a hand through her hair. She looked at Jim: "Escort me out?"

"Of course."

"Don't you mean 'OF COURSE, VEE!'"

"YES THAT'S WHAT I MEANT BUT FOR OUR SAKE, LET'S DO WHAT THE CAPTAIN SUGGESTED AND use our inside voice," Jim said, smirking back at her.

"SOUNDS LIKE A PLAN, JIM!" Sylvia screamed back, grinning broadly.

They stood outside the GCPD station and Jim continued, "Ed kissed you?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"In my office."

" _Where_?"

"In my office, at my club," Sylvia clarified.

"I know where your office is," said Jim heatedly. "I'm just surprised he was there…." A moment passed. "Why the hell was he there?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"He wanted to talk."

"Talk about _what_?"

"Jim, calm down."

"I **am** calm." Jim said through gritted teeth. "Can't you tell?"

"It was a simple kiss. It didn't mean anything."

"It didn't mean anything to you, at least."

"Jim, don't you _dare_ go back inside," Sylvia said, snatching his arm. "You're going after Nygma, aren't you?"

"He kisses my sister, and I—"

"Shouldn't care," Sylvia finished for him. "I'm a grown fucking woman, James. I'll be fine. And the worst is over, so please, let's just drop it?"

"What happened after he kissed you."

"I made him leave. Nothing else happened. It was a mistake; Ed apologized."

"Well, I'm still going to have a talk with him."

"Jim."

"I'm going to have a nice, _calm_ chat with him."

"Jim!"

"Trust me, Vee. It's for the best. For all of us." Jim reassured, patting her back. He started inside the GCPD station, but Sylvia grabbed him by the belt of his pants and pulled him back.

"Would you stop for a second?" She snapped. "Just please do as I ask, and _drop it_. I don't want to hear about it anymore, okay?"

She rubbed her head from where the headache was starting to come back. Jim forgot about his temper when he noticed Sylvia was hurting.

"Are you okay?"

"It's a headache. I'll be fine."

"Need a doctor?"

"No, it's not life-threatening."

"It doesn't need to be life-threatening for you to visit a doctor," Jim pointed out.

"No. I don't need a doctor. It's just a headache. They come. They go."

Jim nodded and he hugged her suddenly. Sylvia looked at him, surprised.

"Thought that might help," Jim advised. "And it might be due to all that shouting inside."

"Probably. I'm going back to bed."

"Do you need me to take you?"

"No, I can take myself."

Sylvia kissed his cheek and walked to her car. After this, only alcohol could cure her ailments at this point.

**Chapter 6: The Funeral**

Sylvia stood in the Meeting Room, staring into the fireplace. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her hair sat on her shoulders in untamed tangles and knots. Her skin had broken out in a cold sweat from yesterday's nightmares, leaving her hair frazzled, her pajamas wrinkled; dark circles lined under her blood shot eyes.

Two weeks had passed since Oswald had been carted off to Arkham Asylum. She'd considered taking a visit, but the last time she'd tried, Dr. Hugo Strange had strongly recommended a separation in order for Oswald's 'rehabilitation' to go more smoothly. She had protested, but he said that Oswald was in no danger to himself or to others, and that he was doing well and with the separation, their time apart would quickly come to a close with his release.

Since Strange wouldn't allow Sylvia to tear the Asylum apart in order to talk to her lover, he offered an exchange of addresses where Sylvia could write her husband and, in turn, Oswald was permitted to write her. But she felt he hadn't received any of her letters nor had he responded to any of hers if he did.

And then there was Gotham itself, the monster of all monsters.

Run an empire.

Seemed easy enough, didn't it? A meeting here, a meeting there. With the Five Families certain that she wouldn't break any time soon, she needn't worry about them trying to dethrone her. Even if the young Anderson was making his way up the Hit List.

Drake Anderson was a putz. A Yankee, Wall Street pup who wanted all the riches and class that came with being the big dog, but when it was time to be the wolf, his tail tucked between his legs and he'd go into hiding…. more snake, than dog in Sylvia's opinion. When things were getting tough and not so pretty, Sylvia was certain he'd slither back into his hole.

His father, at least, respected the boundaries. _She_ was in charge, he said. He'd have to respect her authority, no matter his misogynistic views.

The real threat—to be honest—was Tabitha Galavan.

In her seething reverie, Sylvia debated just killing the bitch. A quick shotgun round to the face and Tabitha would be gone. No need to look over her shoulder anymore, Sylvia could sleep like a baby. It was no less than what the bitch deserved for killing Gertrud, after all.

Ah….

Sylvia closed her eyes, feeling a slight pang in her chest. Yes…Gertrud. The funeral was this evening. Other than a power move being too brutal—even to Sylvia's taste—killing Tabitha was always a low priority, especially with Gertrud's funeral happening in the evening.

Even with all the mental preparation, Sylvia was still unable to stop the painful lodging in her throat…that sickening feeling of needing to cry, but desperately trying to hold it back until she could find a small bathroom to lock herself inside. Hold those emotions back, pretend to be strong in front of present company until she can be alone.

The pain seemed twice as bad, considering she'd be present at the funeral whereas Oswald would not be able to attend. She'd promised him in a letter that she would put Gertrud in the finest casket money could buy, to deck her grave with as many lilies as the boutique had in stock…the music would be all the arias Gertrud loved. A small funeral, it would be.

Whether Oswald ever received her letters, Sylvia wasn't ever sure. He never responded back.

"Lady Cobblepot."

Sylvia turned from the fireplace to glance at Mr. Bell who wore all black. He held a glass of tea in his hand, offering it to her. She took it lazily, but didn't drink from it.

"I just heard from the Father. Everything is in place." Mr. Bell stated somberly.

"Thank you."

"If I would be so bold to ask—"

"Mr. Bell," Sylvia said, holding up her unoccupied hand. "You've been a great confidante, and an excellent mentor and professional tutor. I personally consider you a friend. So, please. Be bold. Just speak your mind, okay?"

"Of course, my lady. Would you like some company?"

"You're standing in front of me, aren't you?"

"I meant to the funeral."

"I'm not in a talkative mood."

"You need not speak," Mr. Bell offered gently. "I find that in moments where the heart is hurting, it's favorable to have a shoulder to cry on."

"I'm not crying on your shoulder."

"I meant figuratively speaking."

"If you want to come, you can." Sylvia said, smiling too.

"We should be leaving soon. It's a twenty-minute drive."

"So it is."

"Any business you'd like me to tend to while we're out?"

"None that I can think of."

"Any messages you'd like me to send to Mr. Zsasz?"

"None that need be spoken," Sylvia answered. She sipped on the tea.

"Did he know Mrs. Kapelput?"

"No, but he knows the value of family. He recently left town to visit his grandmother. He heard about the funeral; he said he might drop by."

"That's nice of him."

Sylvia chuckled, "He says he wants to be there as a 'security consultant' but it's his own way of checking up on me."

"He's not the only one concerned about you, my lady."

"I know that."

"Dagger and Mr. Chilly are concerned about security as well."

"We've discussed this once before. I've not changed my mind: I don't want anyone bringing guns in a church."

"But Galavan and Gilzean—"

"Mr. Bell." Sylvia sighed exasperatedly, placing her glass of tea on top of the mantle. She looked at him solemnly, saying, "Right now, my husband is in an insane asylum. I've not heard or spoken to him in fourteen days…." (she glanced at her watch) "fourteen days, eight hours, fifty minutes, and thirty seconds. I've not slept in three days, thanks to my nightmares of said asylum, and my brother has been chasing a Frost Giant who makes ice sculptures out of the cops he freezes. Right now, Tabitha Galavan and her loyal gorilla are the very _last_ of my concerns."

Mr. Bell took this into consideration, offering a respectful nod of his head. However, he stated, "You might want to consider just eliminating them."

"I've considered it," said Sylvia half-heartedly.

"And?"

"That's it. I'm not making any rash decisions."

"Yet, you'd prefer to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life?"

"Not the rest of my life, no. I'm not worried about Butch. He knows that Gertrud's funeral is tonight. He—at least—still understands and respects the boundaries. There's a line you just don't cross. Making idle threats at a funeral is just damn disrespectful. And so is bringing guns into a church."

"Perhaps it would grant Dagger and Mr. Chilly some reassurance if they were permitted to stand _outside_ of the church?"

"They're overprotective, aren't they?"

"With all due respect, my lady…." He said seriously. "We _all_ are."

"'All'?"

"Indeed. Even Penguin's men."

"Gabe has always been protective," Sylvia uttered more to herself than to her manservant. "He's coming to the funeral too?"

"He wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Are all of you coming?"

"Purely for 'security consultation'." Mr. Bell said with a soft smile.

Sylvia chuckled, "You're too much."

Mr. Bell shared a laugh with her.

The funeral itself was like any funeral. A casket on the podium, open casket. Soft, but sad, music in the background, a few people Sylvia recognized but didn't know personally sat in the front row while her staff stood in the back, looking on.

Gertrud's body had been released from the morgue so she would be properly buried. She'd been dressed in the black and gold dress she'd worn at Sylvia's wedding; her make-up delicately applied to her eyes, ruby lipstick for her lips. She looked so peaceful, despite the violent way she'd gone.

Sylvia stood in front of the casket. She placed a bouquet of lilies over Gertrud's hands that rested on her stomach.

"Hi, Mama Cobblepot," Sylvia uttered quietly, smiling sadly. "You know…. people always say that the dead look like they're sleeping. I've seen a lot of dead people…. been the cause of it too, and I can say—out of personal experience—that I've never once met a peaceful dead person."

She looked at Gertrud's eyes, how relaxed they appeared.

"But I guess you've always been the exception. In the past. Now, in the present."

Sylvia took a lifeless hand in her own. Cold. Pale.

"I've not talked to my own mother in _years_ ," She continued. "I sometimes can't even remember what she looks like, or what she sounds like. I guess aside from you, I never really had a mother figure…. not unless you count Fish. You never met her—probably a good thing that you didn't."

Sylvia touched the lilies saying, "I know you like these. They're your favorite. I guess, I should say 'they were', but…. I'm not ready for that yet. And just so you know, I'm going to take care of your son. I know he meant a lot to you. Just as much as you meant to me."

Gertrud didn't say anything back. Sylvia didn't expect her to. But she inwardly hoped that the woman lying still on the table would suddenly jump up and say it was just a weird Hungarian prank and that Sylvia needn't cry. Gertrud didn't do anything of the sort. It seemed to make the moment darker…. sadder.

"I'm going to miss you, Mama. I love you." Sylvia uttered.

She leaned forward, kissing Gertrud's forehead.

A man stood beside her. Sylvia glanced up, and saw that it was her brother.

"Jim!" Sylvia gasped. "Why—what…."

"I heard the funeral was today," He explained, a solemn expression pressed into his face.

"I thought you were busy chasing the Frost Giant…."

Jim gave her a weird look, like he was put off guard by the nickname and he said curiously, "Is that what they're calling him?"

"That's what _I've_ been calling him. Why are you here?"

"I wanted to pay my respects," He answered, pulling a rose from the inside of his jacket pocket and placed it on the bouquet. "I wasn't sure what the flower would be, so…."

"Well, you didn't know her."

"No. I didn't. But I've interacted with her once, and from that—I know she was a nice lady."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Jim put an arm around his sister's waist, pulling her to him. She rested her head on his shoulder.

"Should I say a few words?" Jim asked uncomfortably.

"If you want."

"What do I say?"

"Whatever you want."

Jim cleared his throat and said quietly to Gertrud, "I admit, ma'am. I'm not good at this sort of—at this sort of thing, but…. I know you meant the world to Vee and you were there for her. It's a shame you died the way you did, but…. well, you're in a better place now."

Sylvia nudged him in the rib saying, "I've never seen you so awkward."

"Trust me, I'm actually holding _back_ some of my awkwardness."

"You're squirming."

"I don't normally attend funerals," Jim admitted quietly. "They make me—"

"—awkward?"

"Yeah."

Sylvia placed a hand on Gertrud's hand, patted it, and then strolled away from the casket with Jim holding her other hand.

An hour later, the casket was lowered into the hole at the cemetery. Sylvia wrapped her arms around herself, watching dirt piles cover the top of the oak box—Dagger, Chilly, Gabe, and Jim shoveled the piles from bigger piles into the hole.

"How're you holding up, kid?" Victor's voice came from behind her; he was walking up to the grave, and Sylvia glanced at him.

"'Kid'?" She repeated skeptically.

"I'd say you're a 'kid'."

"I'm two years older than you."

"Well, you look younger than me."

"Compliments in a graveyard," Sylvia uttered sardonically. "You have a dry sense of humor."

"It's one of my better qualities," said Victor charmingly. "And it's making _you_ smile so my reputation proceeds me."

"Whatever you say. How's your grandmother?"

"She's doing better."

"Did her fever go away?"

"After we dunked her into a bathtub of ice cubes," Victor said with a dark chuckle. "I've never heard bubbie curse in my entire life and she just said 'fuck' about twenty times. You'd think we were in a Quentin Tarantino flick."

Victor wrapped an arm around Sylvia's shoulders, pulling her to him.

He asked, "How did the funeral go?"

"As well as a funeral _can_ go."

"Any interruptions?"

"None."

"I'd have been here sooner."

Sylvia nodded, saying, "Did you finish the job?"

"Yep."

Sylvia watched the four men tap the grave with their shovels, making certain that it was nice and neat. Jim conversed with Gabe, Dagger, and Chilly about sports and whatever else small chat did to put him at ease while working with a bunch of criminals.

While Jim tried to pass the time with uncomfortable chatter, Sylvia turned to Victor curiously.

"Did Anderson give you much trouble?" She asked.

"No more than what I'm used to."

"What'd he say?"

"Nothing much. A short 'fuck you' and he was out of the door," Victor uttered, rolling his eyes as he gestured away from him—a possible direction that Drake Anderson would have stormed.

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him not to go against you, just as you asked me to say. He didn't like the sound of it. He thinks you're not fit to wear the crown, that you're losing control of the dynasty."

"'Dynasty'?"

" _His_ word, not mine," said Victor apathetically. "He's a wild one, Liv. You _really_ might want to consider getting rid of him before he—"

"—Vee—"

"—starts a mutiny..." Victor finished, glancing curtly at Jim after he was interrupted.

Jim came up to Sylvia, saying, "I have to get back to the station. Fries has killed seven cops and Barnes only allowed me to leave because of the circumstances…."

"Ah, how nice of Barnes," Sylvia said cynically. "So _caring_."

"Not now, Vee."

"I know." Sylvia said, waving her hand shortly at him. "Go save Gotham from that popsicle."

"Stay warm," Victor joked, smirking at Jim, who gave him a look before leaving the cemetery in a hurry. Once Jim was gone, Victor said to Sylvia, "Not a lot of humor in that sibling, is there?"

"There is, but you have to look deep, deep, deep, deep, _deep_ down." Sylvia returned humorously.

Dagger, Chilly, Mr. Bell, and Gabe walked with Sylvia through the graveyard. They were on their way back to the car when the sound of a gun being cocked stopped them in their stride.

Sylvia turned slowly and she let out a derisive chuckle when she saw Tabitha Galavan standing before her. A sidearm raised shoulder-level in her hand, cocked, and aimed at her. Dagger and Chilly bared their fists, ready to draw their own weapons, doing so quickly despite the woman already having drawn hers.

Mr. Bell moved to the side, standing just in front of Sylvia, putting his arm up protectively in front of her. A bullet wouldn't be stopped if Tabitha squeezed the trigger, Mr. Bell knew that. But he'd be damned not to try.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sylvia questioned lowly.

Tabitha opened her mouth to speak but Butch had come up from behind her and said, "Tabby, I told you ' _don't shoot_ '."

Tabitha turned to him saying flippantly, "I _didn't_ shoot. I'm _aiming._ There's a difference!"

"We're in a damn cemetery!" Butch exclaimed, gesturing wildly to the graves. "Do you have any idea how disrespectful that is?"

"Oh, shut up!" She hissed. "We talked about this."

" _You_ talked. I listened, and I disagreed. Communication, Tabby." Butch chastised, shaking his head. He moved forward and forced Tabitha's arm that held the gun downward, snatching the weapon out of her hand and forcibly placing the safety back on. "Remember who's in charge? Huh?"

Sylvia held up her hand slowly. Reluctantly, Dagger and Chilly sheathed their guns, glancing at one another before doing so. Mr. Bell remained on high alert, glaring at the two people just out of principle.

"What do you want?" Sylvia asked.

"You know what we want," Tabitha snapped.

"Tabby! Again! Seriously?"

"She _knows_ what we want, Butch. She's just playing dumb!"

"But you don't have to be so rude!"

"I'm not being rude."

"You're being rude _now_."

Sylvia sighed, looking downward. She said more calmly, "What is it that you want, Miss Galavan? Hmm? Do you want control of the empire, is that it? Do you want to kill me?"

She moved past Mr. Bell who stumbled back when she pushed him slightly as Sylvia advanced towards Tabitha. The latter stood at least a foot taller than she, but Sylvia never looked so assertive. Her eyes met Tabitha's, the heat coming back to them.

" _Do_ you want to kill me?" Sylvia breathed. "Because **I** " (she took one more step towards Tabitha) " _certainly_ want to kill _you_. You're the person who put my mother-in-law in the ground; you're responsible for her death, and you know what that makes me? Responsible for _yours_."

"We're not here to kill you," Butch said cautiously, holding onto Tabitha with his good hand. "We're here to negotiate."

"I'm not negotiating anything."

"We don't need any more death," Butch insisted. "But we can't have 'nothing'."

"You _can_ have nothing," Sylvia countered. "You can have less than nothing for all I fucking care."

"You're not being fair," Tabitha growled. She glared at Butch, "She isn't!"

"I can stab you in the back if you like," Sylvia offered snidely. "That might even the playing field a bit, I think."

Tabitha sent her a deadly look, but Butch was insistent on peaceful terms. He held up his metal hand, looking more cautious if not dreadful of the consequences that would come if Sylvia completely lost her patience. They were outnumbered, after all.

"We want half of Gotham," Butch said slowly. "Half of half, even."

"You want to be partners?" Sylvia chuckled. "If you want to talk business, Butchy, you will meet me in the mansion. I don't discuss business in the open—never the less, in a fucking graveyard. That's just a mobster cliché."

"Liv—" Butch began.

Sylvia suddenly strode forward and gave him a hard kick in between his legs. He grunted, held his crotch, and stumbled back, groaning in pain. Dagger, Chilly, Gabe, and Mr. Bell all winced. Tabitha looked murderous, but for the sake of her life, she didn't dare move forward to hurt their queen.

"Only my friends call me that," Sylvia said dangerously. "And you, Butch, _lost_ that privilege when you _shot_ Josh and went along with **her** " (she gestured violently to Tabitha) "and killed my mama. And I would never— **never—** think of partnering up with you after what you put my family through!"

"Okay…." Butch squeaked, looking up at her. "Okay, okay…. Mrs. Cobblepot."

"Better," Sylvia said darkly. "But you're still on my everlasting shit list."

"We'll take one-eighth of Gotham, then. Not even. Maybe one-sixteenth!" Butch said when he saw Sylvia's cynical expression. "A fraction even smaller—just something!"

"That's not good enough!" Tabitha snapped. "You might as well just _give_ everything to her in the first place!"

Sylvia chuckled, "You can't give what you never had. And you, Miss Galavan, never had _anything_. Your brother did—he was rich. But you were just his lapdog."

Tabitha frowned, saying, "You were Penguin's lapdog too, you know. Remember?" She smirked and whispered tauntingly, "... _Pigeon_..."

Sylvia glowered at her. She looked at Butch, who stared incredulously at Tabitha.

"What the hell is the matter with you!" It was Butch's turn to snap. "Do you _want_ to get shot!"

"We deserve this," Tabitha growled back. "We _earned_ the right to rule, it's _our_ turn!"

"Spoiled little brat," Sylvia muttered. "You know, you want the empire back so badly, you could have it!"

Tabitha stared at her. Did she say what she thought she said? However, Sylvia stepped forward and a huge smile was on her face, a creepy, happy one at that.

"But no one, Miss Galavan—and I do mean 'no one'—will follow you. They love _me_." Sylvia said softly. "They like _me_. They obey **me**. You want to contest me, you want to challenge me for the throne, go 'head. But you will fail. You will _lose_. I can guarantee that without a doubt. And when you do, I will put you off your pedestal, and I will put you in. _The. Ground_."

Butch uttered, "Babe, let's go."

Tabitha frowned, glancing at him, then looking at Sylvia. As though on cue, Dagger, Chilly, Mr. Bell, and Gabe all readied their weapons. Cocking them. And they raised it up slowly, waiting for Sylvia's cue. It wasn't a hard decision.

"Fine," Tabitha scoffed.

She turned on her heel, her long ponytail whipped up behind her. Butch glanced after her, a small expression of concern and guilt crossed his features, but he followed her wordlessly.

Sylvia watched after them.

"As you were, boys." She said gently, looking at them all. "The angry bitch is gone; you can rest easy now."

"She _really_ gets on my nerves," Dagger grumbled, glaring after her.

"You and me both, big guy." She said, patting his big shoulder. "Who wants a drink?"

Everyone raised their hands, including Mr. Bell.

"Great minds think alike!"

**Chapter 7: A Strange Visit**

Victor Fries. That was the Frost Giant's name. According to the papers, he was a menace to society, a whack job, freezing people, including a pharmacist, seven police officers—aside from that, no one knew why the man was doing this horrible thing. What possessed a man to act like that?

Gotham was the breeding ground for lunatics. There was no doubt about that.

Sylvia took a seat at Gertrud's grave. The cemetery was the only place it seemed where lunatics sobered. Even if it was just for a moment.

She visited twice this week, excluding the initial when the casket was buried into the ground. For the most part, Sylvia was silent. There was no use talking to the dead, was there? She could get a few words out before she felt like she was talking to the wind; no one else would hear her, but she could hear the loneliness in her voice.

She had her staff wait in the car; Mr. Bell had insisted on accompanying her, but she'd protested. After her confrontation with Tabitha Galavan, she doubted there would be another bold move made for now. She had made her point quite clear with the both of them, after all.

"Lilies."

When Sylvia spoke, her voice was hoarse. She placed a single flower on the headstone, smiling sadly at it before sitting on her knees, looking at the marble work.

"I thought I'd visit you again, Mama. Just letting you know that Oswald is thinking about you all the time. I'm assuming he is—I've not spoken to him in quite some time, but I'm hoping for the better. I can't afford to think of the worst right now."

" _Sylvia?"_

She glanced up and over her shoulder when she heard the voice, and gave Edward Nygma a shadowy gaze before turning back to look at the headstone. Ed approached cautiously, holding a bouquet of lilies, wearing a dark brown plaid suit. He wordlessly placed the bouquet on Gertrud's grave.

"Why are you here?" Sylvia asked.

"I promised Oswald that I'd make the occasional visit." Ed explained. "It's the least I could do."

"That's all?"

"Yes, that's all."

Sylvia watched him, looked him up and down to search for any sort of lie, but Ed appeared sincere in his intentions.

"I have to apologize to you again," He said quietly, placing his hands in his pockets. "What I did before—I don't know what came over me. Something possessed me…."

"Are you sure it wasn't _him_?" Sylvia asked skeptically. When Ed looked at her questionably, she emphasized, "The _other_ you?"

"I don't know, honestly," He said, uncertain. "I suppose I _could_ blame it on the other me but that wouldn't be very honest of me…Would it?"

"It wouldn't be. It'd be cowardly to blame your actions on someone else, but then again, look who we're talking about here," Sylvia said tiredly, gesturing to him.

Ouch…

"I truly _am_ sorry." Ed uttered.

Sylvia stood, looking around at him, "Apology accepted."

"Are we still friends?"

"I need space away from you." Sylvia told him seriously. "Despite what resentment I have towards you for kissing me without my consent, I can't be a fucking hypocrite. The truth is I thought it was nice—but I've told you before…I can't. And I can't be around you."

"We can't be friends?"

"We can, but—right now—I can't be _physically_ around you," She clarified.

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Yes, social cues have never really been your strongest suit."

Ed gave her a mildly annoyed look but he didn't press it. Sylvia approached him, arms crossed over her chest, shuddering away that cold chill that ran up her back. She felt like she was being watched by more than just her staff, or by Ed Nygma. Being in the open always made her feel paranoid, but this was something else. A growing ominous presence.

"I told Oswald that you kissed me. I'm sure you heard."

"Yes. He wasn't exactly yelling in _dulcet_ tones," Ed muttered remorsefully. "I'd apologize to _him_ if he wasn't for the fact that he was in…you know…."

"Arkham—it wouldn't matter anyway. Dr. Strange isn't letting anyone visit him—including me," Sylvia said darkly.

"That's strange."

"No kidding."

"No pun intended either."

"Hmm." Sylvia mumbled. "I have the worst feeling."

"You could ask Detective Gordon if he knows anything," Ed offered as a reprieve, gesturing behind him towards the direction of the GCPD. "He's been working the case on Victor Fries."

"Why would Jim know anything about Oz?"

"He had to go to Arkham."

" _What_?"

"Not in the committal sense," Ed clarified, clearing his throat. "The GCPD discovered that Victor Fries has a wife. A woman named Nora. Apparently, she's _dying_."

"Dying? Aren't we all," Sylvia said sarcastically, "What's special about her? Why is she going to Arkham? Did the judge declare her insane as well?"

"She's dying. Physically. Arkham has a lot more security, a lot more lunatics—I don't mean Penguin, sorry, Sylvia—but it's better for the inmates to be frozen to death by chance than the patients at Gotham General. So says Captain Barnes, anyway"

At the last bit, he inwardly rolled his eyes.

"Why go to Arkham at all? She needs a hospital if she's dying."

"They used her as bait. To bring Victor out into the open, per se."

"Wait, they're using Arkham as a _fortress_?"

"Used."

"What?"

"They _used_ it as a fortress. It's done and over with now," Ed said, placing his hands behind his back.

"They made Arkham a _war zone_?" Sylvia said incredulously. "No wonder why Strange wouldn't let me in."

"Well, Barnes did mention that the rehabilitation processes are more extensive than the usual check-in/check-out business in Gotham General," He reminded. "Spouses are regularly separated for betterment of rehabilitation."

"Meaning _what_ exactly?"

Ed said darkly, "Hasn't it ever occurred to you why Strange won't let you see Oswald?"

"Because I'm his spouse."

"Because you're his _trigger_."

"Pardon?"

Ed shrugged, "You're his co-conspirator. You've never spoken a word of reproach, no matter what he wanted to do. Ambush the mayor, you say 'go!'. Kill the mayor, you volunteered as tribute. Everything he's done, you've never once protested."

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing."

" _Strange_ might think it's a bad thing."

"I suppose he could think that. Wait. Why the hell am I still talking to you?" Sylvia asked. "I told you I need physical distance."

"We both know why you're still talking to me."

"Do we?"

"You're lonely," Ed noted, pointing at her. A small, empathetic smile reached his eyes. "You want to talk to someone who's on the same level of intellect. We both know _I_ am."

Sylvia crossed her arms again judgmentally, ready to counter his premise. But only to find that he was right.

Mr. Bell could offer some intellectually stimulating conversation, but that's all she had for it. Despite Ed kissing her, making her fly off the handle, and having nearly placed a wedge between her and Oswald at the worst time possible (despite having the situation clear up in a matter of minutes due to thorough communication), Ed was still her friend.

"I passed a boundary the other day." Ed said quietly. "A boundary I was certain I would never cross. And I'm sorry for that, Liv."

"I accepted your damn apology, Ed. No need to keep saying you're sorry."

"I can't help it. I hate it when you're angry at me."

Sylvia ignored his pathetic response and said coolly, "Do you think Strange is trying to change Oswald?"

"Rehabilitation." Ed reminded like the word explained everything.

"He's fine the way he is."

"So _you_ say," said Ed, gesturing to her with a light sway of his body. "But the doctor might think otherwise. You killed with Oswald. You killed _for_ Oswald. Having you anywhere near the hospital might rehash all of Oswald's more negative qualities, supersede all that work Strange has done to 'rehabilitate'" (Ed dramatically bunny-eared the word) "him, and he'd have to start all over."

Sylvia sighed deeply, "I wish there was just _one_ place in Gotham that _wasn't_ fucking dirty. You know? Is that so much to ask for?"

"Not necessarily. But Gotham is a whole different animal." He looked around for a second before asking her quietly, "Do you feel like you're being watched?"

"I'd say that's the paranoia kicking in, but you know, I've been having that feeling all day." She answered. A second after, she emphasized, "Well, _more_ than usual."

"We should leave."

"Not together, though."

"Of course not." Ed agreed. "That might look a little—"

"—Suspicious?" Sylvia offered.

"Well, _I_ was going to say 'weird', but 'suspicious' works too."

Sylvia started walking away. She stopped in mid-step then turned to look at Ed, who curiously met her gaze, noticing she was coming back to him.

"Thank you for the talk." Sylvia said softly.

"Anytime."

She nodded then quickly left for the car. The feeling of being watched was growing more eerie by the minute.

Sylvia walked into Dr. Strange's office, choosing to sit opposite of him. His desk was cleared of any files he'd been perusing prior to calling her back into the room. She'd requested yet another visit to see her husband, and when she argued with Ms. Peabody, the nurse deferred her to him.

She rigidly seated, her back leaned stiffly against the chair, her hands folded on her lap.

She'd been in the presence of criminal masterminds, in the company of murderers, rapists, thieves, and mobsters alike, and never felt so unnerved as she did, sitting before the head of psychiatry. He peered through his circular, pink-tinted glasses as he silently sipped from a cup of tea. For a moment, no one said anything; he was waiting for her to initiate the conversation, despite knowing why she was here.

"Would you care for a cup of tea?" He offered, holding up his own indicatively. "I take sugar and lemon in mine."

"I don't want tea."

"It would relax you."

"With all due respect, I'd rather not. Tea relaxes me, sure, but I wish to be tense."

"You _want_ to be tense?"

"It's my baseline at this point," Sylvia admitted starkly. "And you know why I am here, so if we could…."

"Yes…." Strange drawled, smiling at her politely. "I know why you are here. Ms. Peabody explained to me your egregious concerns, but as I've explained before: your husband is in perfect hands."

"If he were in _my_ custody, I could believe that. But he's not. He's in your facility." Sylvia returned callously. "Arkham isn't exactly a five-star hotel either, so don't try to placate me with that fancy hospitality."

Strange placed his cup on the tiny China-made saucer in front of him, and scooted it away from him delicately before interlacing his fingers together, watching her through his pink glasses. He observed her frigid stance, the look of spite growing noticeably on her face, but there was still a tinge of concern.

"I've written to my husband. _Several_ times." Sylvia stated curtly. "I've never received anything back. Not one letter."

"He's been deeply involved in his treatment."

"It's not like him not to talk to me."

"Well, that depends. Does he _always_ tell you what he's doing?"

"He doesn't always tell me _everything_ , but not hearing from him isn't like him at all," Sylvia stressed. "Treatment or no treatment. Personally, I'd feel a lot better if I could just talk to him, see him in person? I'd get out of your hair, and you wouldn't have to harassed by my lawyers regarding patient rights, assuming you prefer _not_ to be sued."

"Coming into a hospital, talking about politics and lawyers," sighed Strange. "Perhaps you could use a bit of treatment yourself."

"I'm not insane."

"You're in love, aren't you?"

Sylvia blinked: "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"Love is a form of madness," Strange said gently. "I can tell that loving your husband has definitely driven you mad—although, I have to say, you look a _lot_ better since the last time I saw you. Not nearly as haggard or disheveled as before."

Sylvia sent him an icy glare. But he wasn't wrong. When Oswald was first committed, she'd burst through his office wearing sweats, flats, a red tank top, and her hair was all over the place, make-up smeared from a long night of panic attacks and desperate crying. Now, she was in a white V-neck blouse, black pencil skirt, shiny, black high heels, and tan stockings. Her hair was pulled back into a long, shoulder-length braid.

"I can understand your cause for concern," Strange continued in that tone of caution. "Separation anxiety can be quite stressful for both spouses, for people who have spent very little time apart. I can tell that you're very protective of him...but I sense there's something more. You mentioned a law suit—may I know the matter you are wishing to pursue?"

"Negligence," Sylvia stated darkly. "Hypocrisy."

"'Hypocrisy'? That's a new one."

"You want me to 'relax', to not be concerned, but you're avoiding the matter altogether, which is what is making me _highly_ concerned. You tell me it's all about rehabilitation, for betterment of treatment, but I think it's a charade, a fucking lie." Sylvia said harshly. "You want to make me relax? Don't offer me a cup of fucking tea. Let me talk to my husband. If you don't, I _will_ sue you."

"The patient is physically stable, mentally and emotionally—He's fine."

"The _spouse_ **isn't** fine!" Sylvia snapped, getting to her feet furiously. "You're keeping us apart, Strange! And I want to know why!"

"I _told_ you why."

"You've told me a _reason_. But it's not the truth."

"The reason I've given _is_ the truth."

"Okay," Sylvia huffed, straightening. "You want to play word games, Strange? How about I take my heel and shove it up your—"

Strange stood slowly to his feet, hands out in front of him. Cautious.

"Now, now, Mrs. Cobblepot. Calm."

"Don't tell an angry person to calm down!" Sylvia responded coldly. "It's counterproductive. Have you ever _tried_ to calm down! It's a fucking _paradox_."

"Mrs. Cobblepot, please try to understand. I'm acting on behalf of your husband."

"On behalf of _my_ husband?" Sylvia retorted. "You don't _know_ my husband."

"On a contrary," Strange drawled, slowly sitting back in his seat. "I have a contract here. Hold on, let me get that out for you to read. It has his statement…." He placed a vanilla-colored folder in front of her, and slowly pushed it in her direction.

Sylvia snatched it, opening it up to see a written contract. It was in Oswald's handwriting, stating that he did not wish to see her—Sylvia Cobblepot—until after he graduated his rehabilitation process for betterment of treatment, and also gave Arkham Asylum permission to restrict her from any contact. Including but not limited to withholding any letters that he would send out, as well as the disposal of hers.

She looked at Strange incredulously, slowly holding up the written contract, saying, "This was coerced out of him."

"How can you tell?"

"How can I _not_!" Sylvia snapped, throwing the paper at him. "He couldn't stand being away from me for a day, never the less a month—and you want me to believe that he'd sign away our relationship to partake in _your_ therapy? Not happening."

"It's frustrating, I can imagine—"

"Don't _placate_ me!" Sylvia retorted, violently pointing at him. "This isn't some fucking hospital, this is a fucking _prison_."

"Well, he _is_ a convicted criminal," offered Strange in an attempt to sound reasonable. "He murdered the mayor. That's not something a _sane_ person would do."

Sylvia stared at him. Well, she couldn't argue his point—after all, _she_ was the one that killed Galavan. But there needed to be a way to fight the system, right?

"You're turning him against me, aren't you?" Sylvia questioned hatefully. "You're switching the wires in his brain, changing _him_."

"That's what rehabilitation is about, Mrs. Cobblepot. Change. Change for the _better_."

She leaned over his desk slowly, a danger in her eyes. He noticed the sign, and although he could call for security, state that he was acting under duress, he chanced to see just what Sylvia was prepared to do to see her husband again. There was a lot less self-control in her when Oswald wasn't around telling her how to act, what to do—Strange noticed it, and he smiled.

"You're torturing him in there, aren't you?" Sylvia said quietly.

"I assure you, Mrs. Cobblepot, we are doing _no_ such thing. I don't condone violence."

"Shock therapy isn't violent?"

"It's _therapy_. And you've assumed the worst."

"I assume the worst thing possible—the worst thing _imaginable_ is that you've decided to do a lobotomy and have proceeded take out his brain. It's the only explanation I could find that would explain why he'd sign away the privilege of seeing me." Sylvia returned resentfully. "I spoke with a colleague of mine" (she sat down) "and he mentioned that there's a possibility I may be Oswald's trigger. Is _that_ why you've refused to let me see him?"

"How interesting," Strange drawled, smirking at her.

"What is?"

"You are. To have that sort of strong insight, that perception of one's self. It's remarkable, really. _Do_ you believe you are a trigger? His reason for committing violence?"

Sylvia crossed her arms defensively, saying, "I'm not his source of agitation, if that's what you're implying. I'm a source of nurturing and comfort, if I'm anything."

"I'm not implying anything."

"I think you are."

"I assure you I'm not."

"Well, _I_ assure you that _I_ think you are." Sylvia retorted. "And you're hiding something. You're hiding what you're really doing in this fucking hospital, and you're pretending that I'm just a concerned wife, so confused, so disoriented."

"Aren't you?"

"I'm a concerned wife, but I'm not fucking stupid," She insisted curtly. "You're trying to change him, to make him something he's not."

"A better man?"

"He _is_ a good man."

"I said 'better'."

"You say he can be made into a 'better' man. You're implying that he's not good _enough_." Sylvia said through gritted teeth. "Who are _you_ to say that he isn't?"

"There's that protective urge coming out of you. Oh, yes. I can see it." Strange uttered slowly. "I'll make it clear for you: Oswald Cobblepot is a convicted criminal, and was pronounced insane by his doctors, his lawyers, and was placed under my care for treatment. For rehabilitation. He is sick, and like any sickness, it _can_ be treated. He _has_ been resistant to our processes, but that's not uncommon. Like with any big bug, there are bigger antibiotics. I can, however, say that he has been making excellent progress, despite the aggressive treatment."

"Aggressive?" Sylvia uttered, biting her lip nervously.

"Your husband is uncooperative."

"So you _have_ been torturing him."

"Torture isn't what we do here at the asylum."

"Not on paper at least," said Sylvia sarcastically, sending him a cruel smile. She stood to her feet. "You're a liar, doctor. A liar, a corrupt little weasel. I can't do anything right now—no matter how much I want to wring your scrawny neck. But make sure to remember this: if he comes out of this hospital with any injury, I will have a personal vendetta against not just your hospital and staff, but against _you_."

She straightened and walked off.

Strange looked after her and when he was sure she was gone, he called in Ms. Peabody, who entered the room shortly after watching Sylvia leave. The large nurse exchanged oppressed looks with the doctor, who smiled only after.

"She knows, doesn't she?" Peabody said unhappily.

"I would expect she does. She isn't naive like the rest of the families we dealt with in the past," Strange said lowly. "She is intelligent, perceptive…."

"You sound like you admire this woman." Peabody uttered.

Strange glanced at her through the side of his glasses saying, "She has passion. Gumption. A woman like that is hard to find in Gotham, one that has both her head in the clouds but her feet on the ground."

"Do you suspect she will come back with a lawyer?"

"No."

"You believe it was just bawdy talk?" suggested Peabody, a hint of curiosity.

"I think she meant well," said Strange, shaking his head.

"She wasn't wrong about the torture."

"Therapy, Ms. Peabody. Shock _therapy_ is a **form** of therapy. But her knowledge and perception do not worry me. Mrs. Cobblepot shows healthy—albeit agitated—concern for our patient, passion for his health. She seems overprotective, though."

"That, I believe," Peabody muttered. "I heard her threatening you from down the hallway."

"Not unlike how a mother would react when she is unable to protect her flock."

"What do you mean, doctor?"

Strange held a pencil in his hand, scribbling a few notes as he said, "Sylvia, herself, is an excellent study. From my sessions with Mr. Cobblepot—how he talks about his mother and how he talks about his wife are one in the same. Clearly, she's taken on the role of being both the spouse as well as the mother figure in his life, enabling Mr. Cobblepot's uninhibited Mother Complex. It's only worsened, now that his mother was murdered. Whether either of them are aware of that is still yet to be explored."

"Is that your professional opinion?" Peabody said humorously.

"In layman's terms: he has mommy issues, having formed an unhealthily close relationship with the biological. Granted, all of us subconsciously search for genetics in our significant others that were once mirrored in our parents," Strange said crudely, making Peabody chuckle. "My professional opinion is that Oswald and Sylvia Cobblepot not only want each other, but to be optimally functional _need_ one another. They are symbiotic…both of them have exhibited signs of separation anxiety."

"That sounds toxic."

"On the contrary, I think on some level it's really sweet. And it's fascinating how each of them have found a little of what they needed in _each_ _other_. A perfect love story."

"Let's agree to disagree."

"Of course." Strange chuckled.

"Don't forget about your meeting with the Head of Finances. Later today."

"Oh right, I nearly forgot. _Thank_ you for reminding me—what with the excitement of Mr. Fries and his wife freezing in a room and the rambunctious conversation with Mrs. Cobblepot—I nearly lost track of time!" Strange said, grinning widely. "Let's be on our way, shall we?"

**Chapter 8: To Feel Nothing**

It was a cold night. Rain fell on every house and apartment building in Gotham. There was barely any visibility through window or windshield. While it was freezing outside, it was warm inside the mansion, a toasty fire crackling beneath the mantle.

Well, warm to everyone except for Sylvia.

Two blankets were gathered over her body, and she was swaddled like a newborn baby underneath them. She'd lain in bed for two days straight, only leaving the bedroom when she needed to go to the bathroom. While the cold had some effect on her, it didn't explain her sluggishness or indifference to the world and the people surrounding her.

Mr. Bell would come by the doorway, attempting to boost her spirits. He would tell her to get out of the house, go on a run with him, or take a walk in the park, but nothing seemed to pull her out of her blues. She just did not want to get out of bed; it consumed too much energy to do so, energy she didn't have.

She was always feisty and fiery, and when she wasn't, people noticed. Everyone in the mansion could tell. Jim, included.

He stopped by the mansion, pausing when Dagger and Chilly decided to pat him down for any other weapons than the one that was issued to him by the GCPD. After giving them ironic looks, Jim was granted permission when Mr. Bell excused their suspicion, insisting that Jim was their guest. Despite their chagrin, the brutish thugs stepped aside and allowed Jim to pass between them; he followed Mr. Bell through the mansion.

"She won't eat," said the manservant worriedly as he strolled through the hallway, although he hardly appeared content; he had an uncertain trudge, like he was walking to his death—being someone that had a record for cheering up his Mistress, perhaps this _was_ similar to a deadly situation.

"She won't drink. She lies in bed day and night." Mr. Bell continued, glancing at Jim to see that he mirrored him in concern.

"How long has she been like this?" Jim asked.

"A couple days. After the funeral, I expected it. But I fear that she has gotten worse."

"Does she have a fever?"

"Physically, she's fine." Mr. Bell clarified, leaving much of the explanation to Jim's detective skills. "I'm sure she's just distraught and that is all….not exactly comforting, mind you. If it was an ailment, I'd be able to fix it."

"Really?" Jim said, surprised. "Are you a doctor?"

"Well, I don't have a PhD hanging in my office. But I daresay I know a tad bit more than your fancy GCPD, Detective."

Jim held up a hand cautiously, saying, "I didn't mean to offend."

"I'm sure you didn't. But you have a way about you that makes people feel otherwise."

"You're not the first person to tell me that."

"I wouldn't think so."

Mr. Bell entered the bedroom; prior to that, he knocked on the door.

There wasn't any response—no acknowledgement for either of them to enter. They didn't wait for it. Instead, Mr. Bell moved through the doorway, signaling for Jim to come forward. The manservant stood by Sylvia's bed.

"Lady Cobblepot, the detective is here to see you. James Gordon." Mr. Bell announced.

She glanced up at him, her eyes seemed to peer right through him before she lowered her head back to the fluffy pillows. With a sigh of resignation, Mr. Bell left him to it, leaving the room.

Sylvia was staring listlessly at the end table beside her bed. On it was a frame, inside it was a picture of her and Oswald's wedding photo.

Jim cleared his throat uncomfortably. He was fine when she was yelling at him, verbally emasculating, or even when they were aiming their weapons at each other. Sylvia's indifference was unbearable. Jim advanced, standing just in front of her bed; she didn't so much as glance at him this time. He sheathed his hands inside the pocket of his pants, strolling forward, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

When he had shown no sign of giving up, Sylvia looked at him with a hint of annoyance.

"What do you want, Jim?" She asked tonelessly. "Mr. Bell called you, didn't he?"

"Your people called _my_ people. And yes. Mr. Bell called. But other people are worried too, Vee. You couldn't imagine my surprise when I heard Victor Zsasz asking for _my_ help."

"Go away."

"I said I would stop by."

Sylvia met his eyes and she said in the same flat tone, "So you have. Now, please leave."

Jim sighed, taking his hands out of his pockets. He gestured for her to move a little so he could sit on the edge; she barely moved a centimeter, only putting her head into the palm of her hand. He sat down on what little room she had provided.

"I hate seeing you like this, Vee."

"Then stop looking."

"You're depressed."

"I wish."

Jim's eyes flickered over her general disposition: "What do you mean?"

"I don't feel anything," She said, looking at him with only her eyes. "I don't feel angry, or sad….I don't feel anything. I'm numb."

"Perhaps that's for the best."

"It's a sickening feeling. I'd rather feel rage than _nothing_ at all."

Jim nodded. He could understand that feeling.

That's why he almost always chose anger instead of sadness…pain instead of nothing. Sometimes it was better to feel _something_ than to feel nothing—at least, then, one could feel just a little alive. He placed his hand on her shoulder, gently massaging the bone. She glanced at him warily, a small hint that she didn't want anyone touching her but she didn't shy away from it either.

So that was something.

"Is this about Edward Nygma?"

"Why would it be about him?" She asked listlessly.

"He kissed you. He _was_ the reason for your quibble down at the station…when Oswald was being booked, wasn't it?"

"Yes, he was the reason we argued. No…he is not the reason why I feel the way I feel."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It isn't about him."

"Then why are you acting like this?" Jim asked, taking his hand from her.

"I don't know."

"Come on, Vee. Talk to me."

"I don't want to talk to you." Sylvia murmured, closing her eyes. "I told Mr. Bell…I told him…."

"Told him what?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm too tired to talk."

"You _need_ to talk."

"I don't _need_ to do anything," Sylvia responded airily, glancing at him. " _You_ want to talk. **I** want to go to sleep."

"How much sleep have you had in the past two nights?"

"I don't know. Thirty…Forty…hours. Maybe more. Don't know. I didn't count."

"That's a lot. And Mr. Bell says you don't eat."

"Why do you care."

"You're my sister."

"So what."

Jim suppressed the urge to slap her. For someone who was always so passionate—whether that was kissing her husband or chewing people out—Sylvia's lackadaisical attitude was pissing him off. Jim placed his hand on her shoulder again, an attempt to comfort her. She didn't even startle.

"You need to get out of bed."

"I told you. I don't need to do anything. Just leave me alone."

"Is it your empire?"

"The empire is holding."

"It can't run itself."

"Well, it is." Sylvia murmured. She closed her eyes again, sighing, "I'm just tired. Please let me rest."

"You slept for twenty-four hours. You're not tired."

"Stop telling me what I am and what I am not."

"Vee…."

" _What_!" Sylvia suddenly snapped, glaring at him. She sat up. "What the _fuck_ do you want from me, _Jim_!"

"I want to know what's wrong. Tell me."

"How can I tell you what's wrong if _I_ don't even know!" She retorted, gesturing to him furiously. "I just want people to leave me alone! Is that so much to fucking ask—god!"

She laid back in bed, her head slapping against the pillow as she glared furiously at him. Jim remained silent—it seemed like it was the best thing to do, for her and for his self-preservation. He watched the fury leave her eyes, that spark disappearing.

When he didn't argue with her, the apathy returned.

"I talked to Strange." Sylvia said quietly.

"Did you?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And?"

"He wasn't much help."

"I spoke to Strange as well."

"Did you?" She asked. "What did you find out?"

"Nothing much. I saw Oswald in the asylum, though," Jim offered. "Saw him there when Harvey and I took Nora Fries there."

"How did he look?"

"Calm."

"You mean 'sedated'," Sylvia corrected cynically. "Good job, by the way. Making Arkham your own battle ground. _That_ was a good idea."

"How did you find out about that?"

"Ed told me."

"I thought you stopped talking to him."

"He's my friend."

"He kissed you."

"And he apologized," Sylvia insisted. "Right now, he is—quite literally—my only friend. If it wasn't for Mr. Bell or my people caring about me, would _you_ have even come to check on me and make sure I was fine?"

"I assumed you were."

"You assumed? Well, look where that got you."

"When Barnes arrested Oswald, I had no idea you'd fall into a state of depression, Vee," said Jim reprovingly. "How could I have predicted that?"

"My life gets threatened pretty much on a daily basis. My mother-in-law gets put into the ground. And, Oswald, the love of my life, gets put into a loony bin for what _I_ did and _you_ don't think I'd be a little bummed out about it?" Sylvia said sarcastically. "I thought you were a detective, Jim. Surely, you'd have figured that one out. Surely, you would have realized that I would not be in the brightest of spirits. But hey—you assumed, and your assumptions are _always_ correct, aren't they? Good for you, Jimmy-boy. You get a gold star! La-dee-da."

"Don't give me that." Jim scolded.

"Don't give you _what_?"

"That! That tone—I can do without your snide comments."

"Well, you're not getting a sincere congrats from me—not with your crazy assumptions and that 'awesome' police work you did. What, with putting Nora in a fucking crazy house, I bet that went over well with her husband, didn't it?" Sylvia replied cattily. "Did Nora live?"

"No, she died."

" _That's_ unfortunate."

"It is."

"I'm assuming Lee knows?"

"Nora was Lee's patient."

"So Lee was with Nora when it happened?"

"Yes."

"Wow, now you can be brother-of-the-year _and_ win the father award."

"It wasn't my idea for her to go along!"

Sylvia said coldly, "Well, it wasn't exactly _my_ idea to kill Galavan, was it? You wanted to kill him—you wanted to put a fucking bullet in his face—"

"You took the gun _from_ me!" Jim retorted.

"Because I knew you wouldn't be able to live with yourself if you killed him!"

"What the hell are you _really_ pissed about?" Jim questioned. "Are you mad because Penguin is locked up because of you—or are you pissed because you didn't give me the choice to shoot Galavan?"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

Jim stared at her. She stared back.

They were both slightly breathless from yelling at each other, seeing a reflection of themselves in the eyes of the other sibling. Sylvia had banked on Jim feeling regret if he had killed Galavan; she didn't think _she_ would feel regret. Killing Galavan was not the issue…the consequences of her actions led her to this point.

"Nora died in the asylum," said Sylvia quietly. "She died, didn't she?"

"Yes. She did."

"I envy that."

"What are you talking about?"

"I envy _her_." Sylvia clarified. In a whisper, she added, "It's a shame I'm not dying."

Jim glanced uncomfortably at her. The nerves in his fingers tingled, and he felt the urge to suddenly hug her, to be there for her, to tell her everything would be all right. But he knew that's not what she wanted to hear. Sylvia stared at the wedding photo.

"It hurts too much, Jimmy." Sylvia squeaked, her eyes watering. "It hurts. Too. Much."

"What does?"

"Being away from him," she answered. "Not knowing what they're doing to him. Not knowing what they're saying to Oswald—what they've _been_ saying to him. What they're saying about _me_."

"What do you mean?"

Sylvia lifted a hand to him, her finger pointing and shaking like it was taking every ounce of strength to do that simple gesture. She pointed in the direction of her vanity mirror, saying, "Left side, top drawer."

Jim furrowed his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side shortly before following her soft request. He approached the vanity, glancing at his own reflection briefly before taking the two black marble knobs of the drawer and pulling it to him slowly. He bit back a sigh of disgust when he saw the drawer contained her lingerie—mostly lace or silk—and he spotted a vanilla-colored folder; assuming that it was the object of her request, he took it and closed the drawer, walking back to the bed, once more sitting on the edge of the mattress.

"Open it." Sylvia said, shaking her head when he offered it to her.

He did as she asked.

He saw the hand-written contract, signed and dated by Oswald Cobblepot, the one requesting for her not to contact him until after he graduated his rehabilitation program.

"It's a copy. Strange gave one to me."

"What the hell is this."

"It's basically a restraining order." She muttered stoically. "He doesn't want to see me. He doesn't want…." (she sighed deeply) "to talk to me. Wants nothing to do with me. I've been cast aside, put on the back burner, left in the dark—whatever phrase best suits this whole thing."

Jim re-positioned himself on the bed, scanning the letter for any hint that it was written in general haste or under duress but all the letters were calmly set from pen to paper. He glanced at Sylvia, who gave him a subtle glance back. He might as well had been looking through a glass wall.

He placed the envelope on the stand, saying, "Vee, you need to get up. Get out of the house, take a walk."

"I don't want to…."

"I know you don't want to, but you _need_ to."

"I don't want to!" Sylvia groaned, putting her face in the pillow. "I don't want to talk anymore, Jim. Just please...please leave me the fuck alone. Please!"

"I can't."

"Why not."

"You told me you wished you were in Nora's place. That you wish you were dying. Do you know what that sounds like to me?"

"It's not the first time I've talked about it."

"And it's not the first time you were about to act on it," Jim reminded. "Remember when you thought I killed Oswald? You were on the brink of jumping off the roof of your apartment building."

"That's different." She mumbled.

"How is this any different?"

"I'll be fine, Jim. I'm in bed, not on a roof."

"Vee..."

"Just let me be, please?"

"I can't. You're saying you want to die."

"You can't blame me, can you?" Sylvia said through the muffled pillow case.

Jim sighed, and took her shoulders in his arms, pulling her up. For all her passionate responses and her insistent orders to be left alone, she barely resisted him when Jim forced her to sit up. Her head tilted into the crook of his neck as he wrapped his arms around her back.

"I miss him so much, Jim." She whispered. "Strange won't let me see him" (Her voice cracked.) "And I'm just so….so fucking tired."

"I know." Jim murmured, rubbing her back.

"I can't keep this up. I can't. I'm so tired of all these fucking meetings, people complaining, and always looking over my shoulder."

"Why are you looking over your shoulder? Who's threatening you now?"

"I feel like everyone is."

"Who in particular?"

Shaking her head, she protested, "I don't need your help, Jim. I don't need my big brother fighting my battles. Gotham is _mine_ to control."

"You said you're tired of it."

"Believe me. It's an understatement."

"Then give it to someone who wants the control," Jim offered. "I hear Tabitha Galavan and Butch Gilzean are more than—"

"Not them."

"Then who."

"Nobody."

"Vee…."

"Oswald doesn't want anything to do with me," Sylvia sniffled, brushing the hot tears from her cheeks. "My entire life is in pieces. And I'm falling apart. The empire is all I have fucking left—I can't give it up…and….and if Oswald gets out of Arkham, I want to make sure that he has something to come back to."

"From the sound of things, Strange has been working on him. I doubt he'll come out as the same person."

Sylvia said stubbornly, "If he does, I want him to see that nothing has changed."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Like I said," Sylvia said, pulling out of his embrace. "This is all I have left."

"You have me."

"That's true…I have you. I suppose I also have Ed….as a friend, mind you."

"Mm….speaking of which," said Jim calmly. "I have a few questions for you. Regarding Kristen Kringle."

"The records custodian?"

"The same."

Sylvia resigned to leaning her back against the headboard, rubbing her right shoulder where she'd been lying in bed for several hours.

"What about her?"

"She's missing."

"I thought she was with Officer Dougherty."

"That's what I thought too. Lee expressed some concern," Jim explained. "Apparently, Kristen hasn't cashed in her last few paychecks. She's worried."

"'Worried'." Sylvia repeated, like the word was new to her. Innocently, she asked, "Do you think something happened to her?"

"Probably."

"Have you talked to Ed?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He says Kristen left him a note, stating she was going down South with Dougherty," Jim continued. "The man has money, I imagine. Traveling—that sort of thing. But it's still puzzling to me as to why she hasn't cashed her checks. She'd need the money, if they're traveling. Don't you think?"

"A man who has money," said Sylvia lightly, "doesn't really let his intended buy anything. That could explain why Kristen hasn't been by to pick up her checks."

Jim considered this with a subtle nod, saying, "I'm still looking into it. If anything, just to pacify Lee. She was a little despondent last night."

"Meaning?"

Jim smiled.

"I'd normally be irked by you prying into my love life, but I'm just happy to see that you're starting to get back to your old self again."

"Don't jinx it." Sylvia chided, smiling though. "Tell me what happened with Lee."

"She thinks I'm lying to her."

"About?"

"Galavan."

"Well, you know, Jim. You kinda are."

"That's another thing."

"What?" asked Sylvia.

"Barnes talked to me."

"Not surprised. He talks a lot."

"He told me IA is reopening the Galavan case." Jim said seriously. A dark, ominous shadow overtook his eyes as he said, "It's not over."

"Someone popped a tip to Internal Affairs, huh?" She said sarcastically. "No surprise there. Gotham is full of narcs. Who says I did it?"

"That's just it. They told IA that they saw _me_ shoot Galavan."

Sylvia frowned "It's fair to say someone is framing you."

"It could be a crank call, for all we know. Wouldn't be the first time."

"Won't be the last either."

"Yeah."

"But I doubt _you_ think that, huh?"

Jim nodded.

"I think someone's trying to frame me. Yeah."

Sylvia said curiously, "Did Barnes believe it?"

"I'm not sure." Jim muttered, glancing away and looking down at the comforter. "But it's not sitting well with him. Not sitting well with me either."

"Well, regardless of the fact: we both know you didn't shoot Galavan."

"That we do."

"So don't worry about it." Sylvia offered. "Jimmy, if you start acting dodgy, people _will_ start suspecting it was you. I can get my people on it, see who might have a personal vendetta against you, see who would probably try framing you."

Jim smiled a little saying, "You're the best, Vee. I knew I could count on you."

"Mm. See, Jimmy? It pays to have your sister in the criminal world."

"That, it does." He uttered, although he had to suppress the urge to make a justifiable comment after. He kissed her cheek and said, "I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Not that much better, but it's a start," Sylvia said, smiling back at him.

**Chapter 9: Oswald Is Released**

Sylvia scribbled inside her black leather-bound notebook after the quarterly meeting with the Head of the Five Families. Once they'd left, she'd spoken with The Duke and, shortly after, Tommy Bones. The Commissioner wanted another meet-and-greet about renegotiating terms, but that was going to be left to Mr. Bell's unequivocal ability to dismiss him politely. How many times was the cop going to try and raise his prices?

Brittany hurried inside the Meeting Room, holding a flip phone out to her quietly. She covered the mouth piece and whispered, "It's Edward Nygma. From the GCPD."

"Give it to me." Sylvia said, gesturing her forward.

Brittany handed the phone to her; she took it, and the blonde quickly left the room, closing the double doors on her way out.

"It's me."

"Who was that woman who answered the phone?"

"One of my employees. Why?"

Ed chuckled, "She sounded sweet."

"She's off limits, Nygma. I'm kind of busy, what do you want?"

"Has Gordon come to you yet about Ms. Kringle?"

Sylvia licked her lips saying, "This is a woman you've fucked, Ed—I figured you'd start calling her 'Kristen'"—(She heard him sigh irritably.)—"But I digress. He talked to me, said there are few people who asked about Kristen's disappearance. Doesn't surprise me—your story left a lot of room for people to start poking holes."

"Did you tell him anything?"

"Nope. You're not folding under the pressure just yet, are you, Ed?"

"Of course not."

"Good."

"It does raise a certain dilemma for me, however."

"Mm-hmm. Covering your tracks, right. But you already did that, you said."

"I'm allowed a couple mistakes."

"Not when you're covering up a murder, you're not."

"You're not helping."

"I'm assuming you're calling me for a different reason?"

Ed sighed, "Did you hear about Penguin?"

"I know he's in the asylum," Sylvia reminded apathetically. "That's not news to me. Try again."

"He's not _in_ the asylum. He was released." He said slyly. "And guess where he is."

"Don't play games with me, Ed. Seriously, I have a _lot_ on my plate right now. I've just finished meeting with the Heads of all Five Families, chewed out The Duke for trying to ransack my captains at the Docks, and had a subtle—if not loud—argument with Tommy Bones about sex trades. So please, no jokes."

"This isn't a joke, Liv."

"Then wipe that smile off your face," Sylvia said, annoyed. "I can practically _hear_ it through the phone."

"I'm smiling, yes. But you must know—Penguin is here. With me."

Sylvia stood up so quickly, the chair was knocked over, and Gabe glimpsed through the double doors to make sure his boss hadn't suffered from a sudden heart attack.

"He's there with you? Right now?"

"Yes, and covered in…well, I know feathers, but I don't know what the other stuff is. Probably tar. Its chemical base is—"

"ED!"

"Sorry—uh yes, he's here. With me. Kinda freaking me out, no offense."

"What do you mean, he's freaking you out?"

"He's like super nice right now, it's really weird. So could you just please come over and…you know….get him?"

"Will do. I'm on my way."

"Thanks."

Sylvia hurriedly rushed through the living room without so much as another word to her employees before getting into her car. The Commissioner would just have to take a seat on the back burner.

**Chapter 10: The Jim Gordon-Dilemma**

Ed was relieved when there was a knock on the door. Since he had called Sylvia to come get Penguin, Ed had been appeasing him with talk of weather and simple topics that wouldn't allow him to feel tempted to divulge all the antics he'd planned for Jim Gordon.

The bombing at the bank had only been the start of a grander plan. No doubt the medics were called after Jim threw the bomb into an office and prayed it didn't have a larger radius. That was just a matter of luck.

Ed answered the door, sliding it back and smiled when he saw Sylvia. A black pencil skirt with its hem just above her knees, black three-inch heels, and a white V-neck blouse with its sleeves folded up to her elbows, and her hair was down to her shoulders in long wavy curls.

"Liv, you look stunning," Ed commented as he stepped to the side to allow her in.

"Thanks," She returned quietly.

She twirled around just as Ed closed the door and said curtly, "Jim called me."

"Did he, now?" Ed said with an air of expectancy. "What did he have to say?"

"Some lunatic put a bomb in a locker in the bank."

"Don't tell me you're worried for the bank tellers."

"No, I'm not worried about them. I'm irritated because the bomb nearly killed my brother."

"Oh _my_ ," Ed said softly, feigning shock. "That's troubling. Is….is he alright?"

"He'll be fine. He's been involved in more life-threatening situations than this one." Sylvia said, strangely not picking up on the faux surprise, but he noticed the indifference in her voice.

Her irritability wasn't due to an innate worry for her older brother being held up in a bank and having his life being threatened by anyone. It was the simple fact that despite her own infamous reputation, someone still had the nerve to put her brother's life at risk. _That_ annoyed her, Ed guessed.

"That's comforting."

"He told me he put you in charge of Forensics," Sylvia informed, crossing her arms.

"That, he has."

"Have you found out what this bomber wants?"

"It's funny you say that. Because, boy, do I have some news for _you_!"

"About the bomber?"

Ed suppressed his delight upon revealing his brilliance to Sylvia with a mischievous, child-like smile, "Oh, yes."

"Speaking of news, before you go on, where's Oswald?"

Ed inwardly let out an exasperated sigh. He'd wanted so badly to reveal his significant plan to her that he'd forgotten the very reason she'd even visited. Of _course,_ she had only come to retrieve her reformed husband. Why would she have come just to drop by to say hello. Then again, he called her to come get him, didn't he? What else should he have expected.

In response to Sylvia's inquiry, Ed gestured towards the living room where Oswald was currently sitting on the couch, sipping from a cup of hot cocoa.

He wore the clothes he'd had on before being admitted in Arkham, but the white pillow feathers were an interesting accessory. Despite being tarred and feathered, Oswald looked unreasonably content just to sit there and keep drinking his hot chocolate.

Sylvia glanced at Ed curiously; the latter shrugged.

"He's been like that since I called you," He uttered under his breath, looking at Oswald as he spoke. "He was telling me that violence and anger aren't the answers…it's _really_ freaking me out, Liv. I let him know that you were coming to pick him up and he's been sitting there ever since."

"Did you make the hot chocolate for him?"

"After he asked, yes."

"Arkham really did a number on him, didn't they?"

"You have no idea. Start talking to him and you'll understand where I'm getting at."

Sylvia side-stepped the couch as she walked into the living room. He looked like Oswald, sounded like Oswald, but it was made very clear to her that he wasn't the same man that had been pushed into Arkham's gates. Just his mannerisms alone were different.

She approached Oswald, wondering whether he'd even remember her. He'd been in there for months. And thanks to Hugo Strange, they'd had no contact at all.

"Ozzie." Sylvia uttered gently.

Oswald turned at the sound of her voice, smiling widely when he saw her. He stood up a little too quickly, nearly spilling hot chocolate on himself. It made her smile at just how sweet and infantile he behaved, but Arkham had done more to him than that, Sylvia was certain. Whether Oswald would tell her was something entirely different.

"Hi, sweetheart." Sylvia cooed, walking to him.

As she advanced closer, Oswald looked at her like she was someone else. He didn't appear frightened or disgusted, just in awe of the woman before him.

"Sylvia?"

The name almost sounded foreign to him. It was the first time he said it since getting admitted—none of the nurses or doctors would even allow her name to leave his lips. She was the cause of his agitation, they said, the reason for his violence and homicidal tendencies.

Seeing her now, Oswald wanted nothing more than to hug her, the woman he'd fallen in love with over and over, and would inevitably fall in love with once more.

Still, seeing her now, seemed something more of a visionary than a reality. Oswald couldn't remember much of his turmoil, the angst of being separated from his true love, but he did recall a certain pain in his chest. A starving sensation that had nothing to do with hunger for food or thirst for water.

"It's me." She confirmed. "What…." (She looked him over.) "What happened to you?"

"Oh, it was just Tabitha and Butch having some fun," chuckled Oswald, gesturing to himself.

"Tabitha and Butch? They did this to you?" Sylvia asked; she touched his face where a feather was stuck on his cheek and she gently pulled it off.

"Yeah. I told Ed that they talked about killing me. It was pretty nice of them that they reconsidered."

Sylvia stared at him.

What the hell did these doctors _do_ to him? A surge of an unpleasant, sickening feeling roiled inside her belly, crawling up through her bloodstreams to her heart.

"Well, it doesn't matter what they've done." Sylvia said coolly, ignoring the boiling anger. "I think it's time you came home, don't you think?"

"Home?"

"Yes…yes, Oswald. _Home_. Back to the mansion with me."

"That would be _splendid_!" Oswald exclaimed happily. "Do you have hot chocolate there too?"

He beamed when she nodded and he quickly walked towards her, taking her hand. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, smiling just as widely.

He reminded her of a child.

"Just sit here for a moment," Sylvia offered, leading him to the couch and encouraging him to sit down. "Drink your chocolate. I'm going to talk to Ed for a few minutes, okay?"

"Of course!" Oswald enthused. "Please..."

He gestured for her to do what she needed and he sat back down, content with drinking from his mug.

Sylvia watched him curiously before striding towards Ed, grabbing his arm and pulling him down the hallway so they were out of earshot of Oswald. Ed looked reasonably disarmed, eyebrows retreating up to his forehead when Sylvia opened the bathroom door and shoved him inside. He let out a small 'unf!', having forgotten just how strong she was; he clamored back to his full height as she turned to look at him.

"Liv—"

"I'm going to _kill_ Strange!" Sylvia snarled after she'd slammed the door.

"—Liv—"

" _He's not even the same man anymore_! He's like a child—a fucking infant! He didn't even call me 'Pigeon'…."

"Ah, the pet name he has for you," Ed noted, putting one hand on his hip and the other on the wall as he leaned against it. "Well, I told you. Arkham has done a real number on him."

"You're telling _me_!" Sylvia hissed. "'Pretty nice of them'? Tabitha and Butch just humiliated him, and he's _okay_ with it! What the fuck, Ed!"

"They _were_ going to kill him. So, putting that in perspective, we should be grateful that they didn't."

"That's hardly the point!"

"Well, it's a point worth considering. So what are you going to do with him?"

"Take him home. I'm taking him home. Maybe if I can get him surrounded with what he used to know…who knows, it might just throw him of out this brainwashing mind-shaft Strange threw him in."

Ed put his hands up in surrender as soon as he spoke, just in case she didn't like what she had to hear: "You have to remember, Liv. You and Oswald haven't had any contact for months—you may have to make him remember what you guys had."

"What we still _have_ ," Sylvia corrected, giving him a cold glare. "We wouldn't have lasted nearly as long if someone as annoying as Strange was able to tear us apart."

"Well, that is something we both can agree on," Ed returned, exhaling deeply.

Sylvia sat on the toilet seat cover, brushing her fingers through her hair as she leaned over. Ed lowered his hands to his side, having the worst urge to move forward and embrace her—but he feared that might only trudge up an old argument. And so far, they were functioning just fine, even if Ed had to consistently bury his romantic feelings for her deeper and deeper each time they met.

He chose the alternative, taking a piece of toilet paper from its holder and offering it to her. Sylvia thanked him and she dabbed her eyes with it.

"I thought I'd be happy when he came out," Sylvia muttered, looking up at him with sad eyes. "But this isn't the man I married. He's too… _nice_."

"Would you rather him beat your head in?"

"You know what I mean."

"It was a poor attempt at humor, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Sylvia said, smiling at him. She stood to her feet and Ed watched her. "I best get him home."

She brushed a hand through her hair, peeked at her reflection, and then rubbed her face out of exhaustion. As she opened the door, she turned to Ed who followed her out into the hallway.

"You said you had news for me," Sylvia offered. "About the bomber at the bank today?"

"Yes…I do—well, I did," Ed said carefully.

She tilted her head to the side saying, "Well, which one is it?"

"I….I don't. No news. I just wanted to tell you that the Bomber in the bank had a—you know—had a bomb and that Jim figured it out and he put _me_ in charge of Forensics. You know, happy day!" Ed blurted, grinning oddly.

Sylvia stared at him like he'd gone mad, but his answer somehow pacified her. After all, she had other things to worry about than some mad bomber in the streets who liked to play games. Sylvia stopped by the living room and held her hand out for Oswald to take. He placed the mug on the coffee table in front of him and took her proffered hand, smiling widely.

"Thank you, old friend, for the chocolate. It was delicious," said Oswald as he and Sylvia walked out of the apartment.

"Thank you for calling me," Sylvia said to Ed, smiling gracefully before leaving with Oswald at her ankles.

"Anytime, Liv." Ed returned, nodding his head gratefully.

As he closed the apartment door, he leaned his back against it and muttered to himself. He walked into the bathroom, staring down his reflection until it somehow came apart, ripping itself from his own mirrored half and forming into the _other_ Ed.

"Bravo, Eddie," chuckled Edward; the suave man who wore no spectacles peered at him from the other side of the glass, standing on Ed's left. "You almost got her, didn't you?"

"What the hell are you talking about," Ed grumbled. "There was no 'getting'."

"You knew she'd come though, if you called her."

"Of course she would have come. She needed to get Penguin out of my place."

"Don't act stupid," chuckled the darker Edward Nygma. He grinned slyly, saying, "Oswald Cobblepot was just an excuse for her to come over. You used that card almost immediately. And don't you shake your head—we _both_ wanted her to come. It's always nice seeing an old friend, isn't it?"

"Would you stop?" Ed muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I tried doing what you said before and it caused a _mess_."

"You kissed her, sure," Edward said, unimpressed.

"No!" Ed snapped, pointing at the mirror. " _You_ kissed her! I didn't want to—I knew she didn't—"

"Of course she didn't. She doesn't want _you_ ," said Edward darkly. "She wanted _me_. If you ever realized that, we'd have her in our arms already."

"It doesn't matter what you or I want. She wants Penguin. She's already chosen him. She's married to the guy, and—pardon me—he _is_ my friend."

"Then why were you so quick to get him out of here? He's a changed man—doesn't suit _your_ appetites anymore. It's nice to know that once friends change, you're eager to dispose of them rather quickly."

"He's a changed man. For the 'better'," Ed argued.

"And his change can be _your_ change for the better," Edward drawled. "And more importantly, _mine_."

Ed glanced up at the mirror after splashing water on his face, noticing that the darker entity no longer stared back at him. Slowly, he turned to see that the darkness in its own body sat on the toilet seat cover. The more confident Edward, the suave, cool, calculating man that he was, sat with a leg crossed over his knee, smirking at him.

"You want Sylvia, don't you?" Edward questioned. He rolled his eyes, adding, "Of course you do. I know _I_ want her, so you must definitely want her too."

"We're just friends," Ed said quietly.

"Mm-hmm, we both have heard _that_ old cliché. She only chose that limping bird because she has no other choice _but_ to choose him. She's a married woman, you know."

"I know that!" Ed snapped.

"So, this is our best opportunity."

"The last time you took over, Ms. Kringle died."

"Kristen Kringle wasn't matched for us," Edward reminded. "She was too innocent, too naive, too….well, you know. But _this_ redhead is better for us, don't you think?" (Edward stood to his feet, strolling around the bathroom.) "She is fiery, opinionated, argumentative…not to mention her volatile impulses."

Ed mumbled, "I'm not listening to you."

"Oh, you're listening to me. And you know that I'm right." Edward mused. "Trust me, Eddie. She'll see that Oswald Copplepot isn't the man he used to be. Sure, she'll love him and dote on him, but eventually, that fire of hers will need to be stoked. An innocent, troubled bird is not going to have a hold on her forever, no matter how much she may love him."

Ed glared at the other Edward.

"That's right. Once she falls out of love with that pitiful excuse for 'The Penguin'," the darker Edward made a dramatic gesture, "we will swoop in as the better match. Husband or no husband."

Ed rolled his eyes, saying, "I'm not listening to you anymore. Get out of my head."

"You _want_ her. You _need_ her. Just like she needs us…or should I say…she needs _me_." Edward chuckled.

"I SAID GET OUT!" Ed shouted.

And just like that, the other Edward suddenly disappeared.

Ed looked at his reflection, relieved to see no others around him. It wasn't like he was lying to himself. Of course, he wanted Sylvia. Of course, he wanted to be with her. Anyone with a brain would. But she'd expressed herself more than once now that she would always choose Oswald Cobblepot.

But if Oswald Cobblepot was no longer himself and there was no hope of him ever changing back to his old self, would Sylvia really stay with him? Or would she stray?

Ed looked at his shaking hands. How badly they trembled.

Forget his own passive, underfed desires. He'd look to self-preservation now.

Ed had been so close to brag about how _he_ was the bomber, the man who'd nearly killed Jim Gordon. To Sylvia, of all people!

He wanted so badly to express how clever and intelligent he was for the future (and inevitably successful) framing of the great Detective James Gordon that he was about to reveal every brilliant detail to Sylvia. He wanted her to see that he was clearly meant for the business in the Underworld, how easily he could handle the misgivings and meticulous planning it took to stand by her side as her partner-in-crime.

How he wanted to tell Sylvia all of this brilliant planning. But he'd not calculated one thing.

Sylvia was—in all aspects—Jim Gordon's sister. How had he forgotten! Sylvia was so immersed in crime that Ed frequently failed to remember that she and Jim were related.

So distracted by his feelings for the redheaded Calypso that Ed had forgotten about his own self-preservation. That detective was closing in on finding Kristen's body. And if that happened, _he_ would go to prison. And Ed wasn't about to start looking over his shoulder more than he was already. As much as he cared for Sylvia—as much as he loved her—he needed to get Jim Gordon out of his hair.

He'd covered up his brilliance with an excuse, some odd explanation that would pacify Sylvia's curiosity. But Ed knew Sylvia was not completely convinced that he hadn't any more to say about the bombing in the bank. It was killing Ed not to tell her about his brilliant plans, how fastidious he was being. He _wanted_ her to know just how intelligent he was, how criminally superior he was to the rest of her goons that she surrounded herself with.

But the reality of the situation might as well had been a right hook in his gut.

If Sylvia ever found out that Ed was framing her brother for a murder he didn't even commit, any hope of a relationship—and their friendship, for that matter—was out the door.

"I can't tell her anything," Ed said with finality. "She can't know it's me."

A moment later, he glared at his reflection and mumbled, "Damn it."

**Chapter 11: Oswald Is Different**

Oswald held onto Sylvia's hand as she led him through the mansion.

Mr. Bell, Dagger, Chilly, and Gabe all opened their mouths to say something about Oswald's feathered state but Sylvia held up her other hand and said curtly, "Don't ask!"

That silenced them really quick.

She opened the bathroom door which led to a large bathtub, and a stand-in shower. Wordlessly, she ran a bath, occasionally putting her hand under the faucet to make sure it wasn't scorching hot. Oswald, in the meantime, kept his hands in front of him, fidgeting with his fingers idly as he peered around at the glistening tiles and the lavender border.

"Ozzie."

Oswald looked at her, startled.

"Come here, dear." She gestured to him.

Oswald walked towards her, smiling. He watched her hands move to his clothes and slowly take them off, one piece at a time until he was naked. When he realized he was standing in his own birthday suit, Oswald blushed a bright shade of pink.

Sylvia noticed: "What's wrong?"

"I'm naked."

"I've seen you naked before, love."

"I-I know." He said with a nervous laugh of his own.

With her help, he stepped over the edge of the tub and sat down, more self-conscious than ever. The bubbles hid his other assets and it was only at this point when Oswald appeared content. A eucalyptus fragrance filled the bathroom, and he watched the bubbles pile up to his chest. He happily pulled them to his face, grinning when he made himself a bubble beard.

"What do you think?" Oswald asked, gesturing to it.

"It's very becoming of you." She snickered.

There was a knock on the door. She let out an exasperated sigh while Oswald looked at her.

"What!"

"Phone call, Lady Cobblepot!" Mr. Bell's voice called from behind the door.

"Who is it!"

"Detective Gordon!"

"Take a message! I'll call him when I get the chance."

"Yes, ma'am!"

Sylvia rolled her eyes. Oswald erased the bubble beard and scratched his head, watching her.

"Sylvia?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Are you okay?"

Sylvia met his gaze, startled by the question. She saw the puppy dog eyes, the way he waited attentively for her response.

"I'm fine, sweetheart." She consoled, smiling at him.

Oswald returned the smile blithely.

Yes, she could have told him how miserable she'd been without him. Yes, she could have expressed her hatred towards Arkham Asylum's staff and doctors at the way they've completely changed her husband. But what good would that have done?

He seemed happy enough.

But there was a missing link.

Sylvia could tell that he still loved her, the glow of his face when he saw her, that sweet way he smiled at her when they were both quiet. He was still very much in love with her, but Sylvia felt a disconnection between them.

His shyness for when he realized he was naked while she was still fully dressed; the nervous but ever so curious way he'd looked around at her staff as she pulled him through the mansion; Oswald telling Ed Nygma that violence and anger were not the answers to life's bountiful problems….they were signs of his submission—submission to not just her more assertive, strong will but to the affliction Strange had put on him.

There wasn't any question that Arkham had taken away a vital part of Oswald Cobblepot. He'd always been a true gentleman, always having looked ahead in the future for his and Sylvia's betterment, but what had sealed their marriage and their love was that Oswald had a darkness like hers.

Thanks to Arkham and Hugo Strange, his darkness was now misplaced.

But he seemed content enough. And that was all that mattered, wasn't it?

"Sylvia."

She looked at Oswald when he said her name.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Could you get my back?" He asked modestly. "I can't reach…."

She nodded and moved behind him, taking the washcloth out of his hand and gripping it in her palm. He leaned forward and she gently rubbed his back with the soapy cloth. He let out a sigh of content.

"Oswald."

"Hmm?"

"How come you signed an order that forbade me to see you while you were in Arkham?"

"Hugo told me that…." He paused, thinking for a moment. "You know what. It's the oddest thing. I can't remember why I signed it."

"I'm not going to be mad if you tell me."

Oswald turned in the tub, looking at her.

"I suppose—in some ways—Hugo convinced me that in order to get better, I'd have to do it on my own."

Sylvia placed the rag on the edge of the tub, looking indignant.

"You didn't have to do it alone. I'd have been there with you every step of the way."

"I suppose I knew that on some level."

"Did Hugo Strange tell you that I was the reason for why you were admitted?"

Oswald looked horrified: "No, no! Of course not! Why would you even think such a thing!"

"You signed a _restraining_ order. You granted them permission to restrict our communication to barely nothing. They wouldn't let me visit you, call you—I could only send written communication. I sent you _letters_ , Oz."

He blinked.

"You sent me letters?"

"Yes…I did. At least fifty."

"I never received anything," Oswald uttered curiously. "Did you ever get mine?"

"You sent...?" Sylvia gasped.

Oswald nodded fervently.

"Yeah. I sent one a week."

"I never received any."

"That's strange," Oswald mumbled. Then, with an air of amusement, "Mail in Gotham is never easy, is it? Too bad there's never a simple explanation for these kinds of mishaps."

Sylvia inwardly hissed as he sat back in the tub, "Ohh, I'm sure there _is_ a simple explanation."

Oswald peered over his shoulder at her, uncertain of her meaning but seeing as she didn't elaborate, he shrugged and went back to playing with his bubbles. Sylvia dipped her hands in the water, warming her fingertips as she rubbed them over his shoulder blades, down his back and over his spine.

Strange had every intention, it seemed, to sabotage her marriage. _Sure_ , he'd allowed them to send letters to each other but what had been the point of that if Strange was withholding them? It seemed that at some point, Oswald had been convinced he'd be doing this alone since Sylvia never sent him any written communication—unknown to either of them that Strange was actually taking said letters and disposing of them…Before he'd ever signed a restraining order.

Oswald sat with his back against the tub, leaning his head against her shoulder; she ran her hand slowly through his hair, smiling when she saw how content he appeared. When she looked down and saw him looking at her, she chuckled.

"What are you looking at?"

"You." Oswald answered seriously. "I missed you. While I was away, I thought about you."

"Did you, now?" She said coyly. "What thoughts did you have about me?"

Her hands moved from his lower back to his chest, linking together by the wrists—she'd long forgotten about the worry for her shirt getting wet. Just having him in the same room with her was enough to make her happy.

Oswald placed his palms over the back of her hands, smiling up at her. He didn't answer her. Instead, he looked at her like she might fly up a chimney.

"You're an angry woman," He noted out of the blue, startling her.

"Not all the time."

"You were angry when I left, weren't you?"

"You were admitted to an asylum, sweetheart. For something _I_ did."

"You're angry about _that_ , aren't you?" Oswald said knowingly.

"Why do you want to discuss this?"

"Hugo says that you have a lot of healing to do yourself. That you have a lot of anger. Towards a lot of people."

"What does that idiot know about me?"

"You've done some bad things. Like me." He told her quietly. "You've killed people because of me."

"It was business, Oz."

"Bad business."

"But _business_ ," Sylvia emphasized, "none the less."

"I have a lot of regret," Oswald murmured.

"For what?"

"For getting you involved in it."

"I was involved in it long before you were." She said defensively. "And long before I met you. None of what I've done has anything directly to do with you. Consider yourself absolved, love."

Oswald turned in the tub, facing her. Sylvia looked at him, a little puzzled by his behavior.

"Do you still love me?" He asked.

"Of course, I do."

"I still love you."

"Good to know."

"But things will have to change. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I don't pretend to know what all you've done since I was being rehabilitated, but I can tell that it's nothing good. I can tell that you're angry, but you have to let that anger go."

"Wait…." Sylvia uttered, standing. "Let me make sure I know what you're saying before you expand on that idea…."

Oswald nodded for her to continue.

"You're telling me you _don't_ want me to run this empire," She said softly. "You're telling me you've changed for the best, and you want _me_ to change as well. You want to forget all of this" (she gestured to the mansion in general) "everything you and I have built based on what Hugo Strange told you?"

Oswald said lightly, "I can see why you would be reluctant."

"I'm _very_ reluctant."

Oswald stood out of the tub, and she handed him a towel to dry himself. As he did, she handed him the suit she had steamed and pressed. He happily took it and started to dress. Once he'd pulled over his shirt and waist coast, he was in the process of buttoning his pants while she slipped a tie around his neck, folding it in place.

"I can understand why we don't see eye-to-eye," Oswald said gently, watching her tighten the tie in place.

"You can, can you?" Sylvia muttered.

On any day, that might have elicited a snide comment from Oswald but now, he appeared content with just their conversation.

"We will be fine, you and me," He promised.

"Will we?"

"Love conquers all," He said happily. "I suppose it might be too premature to ask, but I've been thinking of what we could do for our anniversary. Renewal of wedding vows sounds romantic, don't you think?"

Sylvia smiled endearingly, "That sounds like a beautiful idea."

He beamed at her approval.

"Will you think about what I've said?" Oswald asked.

"About changing for the better?" Sylvia returned. "Sure. I'll think about it."

They were on their way out when Gabe stopped Sylvia. Oswald looked worried that something bad might have happened since the last phone call but Sylvia looked more or less indifferent as Gabe leaned into her and whispered in her ear. Sylvia shook her head, and whispered something back. In the meantime, Oswald appeared satiated by curiosity as Sylvia loomed her arm through his.

"How about we visit your mother?" Sylvia offered.

"That's a good idea." Oswald returned.

Gabe looked expectantly at Sylvia, who shook her head. It was a response to an earlier inquiry apparently as Gabe nodded respectfully then began calling another individual with a message.

Sylvia pulled out an umbrella as the rain started to fall. She held it in one hand while the other held Oswald's arm. Together they strolled through the cemetery while Sylvia directed accordingly until they stopped at the headstone where Gertrud lain. It was amidst lush green grass, situated under what would have been a full weeping willow tree; due to the change of season, the said tree was all bear with large, thick branches slowly rustling against the adamant breeze.

While Oswald was dressed in a finer suit than the clothes Sylvia found him in, she wore a knee-high dress, with matching black flats. For Oswald's appeal, her hair was twisted in a braid which fell over one shoulder; on the other shoulder, the strap of her purse crossed over her body.

As they came to the headstone, Oswald smiled at her: "What a lovely spot."

"Yes. I figured once the leaves grow back, it'll provide just the right amount of sunshine and shade that she would have wanted."

"How was the funeral?"

"Simple. I put her in an oak casket. Her tastes were expensive. I figured the box should fit the woman."

Oswald laughed, "I'm sure she appreciated that."

A moment of silence weighed in while Oswald spoke to Gertrud. Sylvia kept the umbrella between them, offering dryness where it was allowed; despite the rain being abetted, Oswald's face was fairly wet, particularly his cheeks where tears were streaming.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be there for the funeral," Oswald said quietly. "You'd be pleased to know that I've changed. I'm a better man…or trying to be. And Sylvia is trying to be better too."

Sylvia sighed, looking anywhere but at the grave. The woman couldn't hear anything Oswald was saying but if she could, Sylvia hoped that Gertrud couldn't see the skepticism on her face. Oswald wanted Sylvia to be a good person, to be the same type of person that Hugo Strange had brainwashed him to be…but the odds of that happening were fairly slim.

She wondered when the knowledge of this would dawn on him, and if so, would he still want her around? She was proving to be a constant reminder of his ugly past, of crime and extortion. Sylvia could tell; every now and then, she'd catch him watching her, wondering perhaps how he was able to commit all those crimes in the past—with her, for her… _because_ of her.

Oswald placed a single lily on the grave, smiling at Sylvia as he straightened. He'd noticed that there were remnants of the same flowers where she had visited.

"Did you tell her I was thinking about her?"

"I did." Sylvia reassured. "I'm sure there isn't a moment when she's not thinking of you."

"I'd like to think so."

" _Excuse me…."_

Sylvia and Oswald lifted their gaze and turned towards the sound of another's voice. It was an older man wearing a raincoat over a fine suit; in one hand was an umbrella, in the other was a bouquet of lilies. He approached with a friendly smile.

"I'm terribly sorry; I don't mean to interrupt."

"Not at all," Oswald said, wiping his tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. He noticed the bouquet: "Oh! Lilies!"

"Her favorite, if my memory serves."

"Yes, they were. Did you know her?"

"A long time ago. I found her only in death, I'm afraid." The man held out his hand, saying, "I'm Elijah Van Dahl."

"Oh, Oswald Cobblepot." Oswald greeted politely, taking his hand and shaking it.

And then the look of puzzlement spread across Elijah's face as he said, "'Cobblepot'? You're related to Gertrud?"

"Yes, my mother."

Troubled, Elijah said, "'Mother'? You're Gertrud's son?"

"Yes," Oswald answered, appearing troubled too. "I'm sorry, how did you know—"

"—How old are you?"

"Excuse me?"

"How _old_ are you?"

"I'm thirty-one—"

"—Thirty-one, yes…." Elijah said, glancing at Gertrud's grave, then back at Oswald, saying, "Oh my word, she never told me!"

"Never told you what?"

"That I had a son!" Elijah gasped, looking at Oswald like he was a figment of his imagination.

Oswald mirrored him in surprise.

Meanwhile, Sylvia had watched the scene fold out before her like a tennis match, glancing between the two men with idle fascination. She leaned into Oswald and said quietly, "Sweetie, is there something you haven't told me about your family tree?"

He startled, having nearly forgotten that she was still there. Elijah seemed to realize she was there too, since his shocked expression suddenly turned to her.

"Are you Gertrud's...?"

"Oh my, no," Sylvia chuckled. "I'm not his sister. I'm his wife." (She held out her hand.) "My name is Sylvia."

"Sylvia…." Elijah repeated. He took her hand and shook it.

"So, this has been fun, huh?" Sylvia mused.

There was a ringing in her purse, and she apologetically excused herself, taking out her phone. When she saw that it was Gabe calling, she leaned into Oswald, muttering, "Give me a moment, would you, darling?"

Oswald nodded, and Elijah watched her curiously as she strode away, answering the phone curtly: "What is it, Gabriel! I'm kind of in the middle of something here!"

Elijah turned back to Oswald who returned a smile.

"How long have you two been together?" Elijah asked.

"Three years," Oswald answered, shrugging. "Give or take a few months."

"She seems like a pleasant woman."

From the sidelines, they could hear Sylvia shouting, "I told those two motherfuckers to _guard_ the club, not get rip-roaring drunk! No, I already told the Commissioner that we are _not_ changing prices. If he wants to negotiate, he's going negotiate with my heel up his fucking ass! You can tell him _that."_

Oswald looked back at Elijah, clearing his throat: "She's having a bad day."

"I'd say so." Elijah raised his eyebrows at the cattiness of the woman before him. "What does she do?"

"She's a club owner," Oswald answered honestly.

Sylvia's voice rang, "If they want to contest me, Gabe, _let them_! I'm already pissed off about what they've done to my husband—No! No, no, no! What? _They tried to do_ what! You know what, I'll tell them myself! Keep them there, keep them inside the mansion, I will deal with them myself!"

She hung up on Gabe and she strode back to where Elijah and Oswald were standing, watching her. Sylvia put her hand on Oswald's shoulder.

"Ozzie, honey, I have to go back to the mansion," Sylvia told him, wearing a tight smile.

"Work called?" Elijah offered curiously.

"You have _no_ idea, Mr. Van Dahl. It was great meeting you." Sylvia said, taking his hand and shaking it. "Oswald, do you want to come back with me or spend some time with your father?"

Oswald looked a bit confused so Elijah said, "I would love having him over for dinner. It'll give us time to get to know each other."

"Fantastic," Sylvia said, smiling at them.

"Sylvia…." Oswald began.

She looked at him.

"Don't do anything rash, okay?" He uttered.

"Don't worry, baby. I know what I'm doing by now."

Oswald kissed her cheek. She returned it, watching Oswald walk with Elijah back to his father's car. Sylvia watched after them with a placated smile before taking out her phone once more and calling Gabe, who answered on the second ring.

"Are they still there?"

"Who?" Gabe asked.

"Tabitha and Butch."

"Yeah, they're still here."

"Good. Keep them there."

"You don't want us to torture them a little bit?"

"It's because of Oswald that I'm not doing anything just yet. Just make sure they don't leave."

"Will do. Should I get Dagger and Chilly back to the house then?"

"They're already drunk—not exactly much help," She growled. "They know better than to drink themselves under the table."

"So, are we going to continue business or are we going to the club?"

"We'll do business at the mansion."

"What about Penguin?"

"He's staying at a friend's house for now," Sylvia said dismissively.

"So, you _want_ the business to be done at the mansion."

"YES, GABE! YES! What's so fucking hard to understand about that?"

"Well, what with Penguin acting weird, I didn't know if you wanted him to see all the stuff we're doing," said Gabe coolly.

"Well, Penguin isn't going to be there. _I_ will be. So, it'll be business as usual."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"I'll see you soon." Sylvia said, and she hung up.

**Chapter 12: The Truth Won't Set Jim Free**

Tabitha and Butch sat frigidly in two chairs beside each other. Mr. Bell stood in front of them, a handgun held firmly in his hand while the barrel was aimed at either of them. Brittany and Delilah were in the Meeting Room as well; neither of them were armed, their icy stares could have killed. Gabe held a phone in his hand, waiting for the call; instead, the doors opened and everyone turned to see Sylvia walk through them.

She handed the umbrella to Gabe wordlessly and then sat on her throne.

"Everyone, get out," Sylvia ordered. "Everyone except you two." She pointed to Butch and Tabitha.

Not daring to argue with her, Mr. Bell cleared his throat, holding up his weapon to prove a point and then followed everyone else out of the room, closing the doors on his way out.

"So…." Sylvia sighed deeply, holding out her hands lazily. "Here we are."

"Sylvia…." Butch began.

"I could have killed both of you. Between _you_ stabbing my mother-in-law in the back, and _you_ going along with whatever this bitch wants." Sylvia eyed Tabitha and Butch respectively. "I'm in my own right to kill both of you. On my way here, I even considered doing it the moment I walked into this room, but you know what? I'm not."

"Why?" Butch asked.

"That's funny. The reason 'why' is the same reason we are here."

"Because of what we did to Penguin?" Tabitha voiced.

"Oh, look at that. Little Tabby cat knows a thing or two." Sylvia mocked, standing. "Yes. That's exactly why you're here. But there's another reason. You tried to go _behind my back_ , tried to clear out my people, try to ransack _my_ home—"

"—This was Falcone's territory before you—" Butch began.

"—And try to kill _my_ girls," Sylvia continued harshly, "all the while I am visiting my mother-in-law's grave. Now if that's not cowardly, I don't know what is! Luckily, I always keep a few men here just in any case someone tries to take advantage of Delilah and Brittany's kindness, namely you two."

Tabitha stood up furiously, but Sylvia reached under the table and pulled out a Glock, cocking back the hammer. Butch worriedly glanced between the two women, and silently urged for his girlfriend to sit back down. Reluctantly, Tabitha did with a huff.

"I've been very patient up until this point. I'd like to think so anyway," Sylvia said in a matter-of-fact tone. "I've been reasonable, even. But you children make it _so_ hard. You disrespect my authority. You overlook my agreed terms, and then—just when I thought you could not sink any lower—you humiliate my husband with your childish antics, and then, _then_ , you come busting in here, threatening the lives of my staff. And what's insulting is that you didn't expect me to find out! How stupid _are_ you!"

"What do you expect? You gave us _nothing_ ," Tabitha seethed. "You were not being fair—not even after we let your pathetic bird friend live. What're you going to do to us? Kill us?"

"Nope," sighed Sylvia, sitting on the edge of the table. She pointed the gun at Tabitha, adding, "I'm thinking of only killing _one_ of you."

Tabitha and Butch's face suddenly became full of dread. That slight reaction made Sylvia grin broadly.

"Personally, I'd let Butch go free before I let any bitch like you live, but I'm prepared to exercise some self-control and let diplomacy prevail. I'm going to let you all choose."

"Sylvia, please…." Butch said quietly. "You don't know what—"

"I don't know what it's like? Is that you were gonna say? That I don't know what it's like to be separated from the love of my life? Come on, Butch. You know that doesn't work on me. God knows I've already been through it. First, Oswald was dead, then he was alive, then he was put in a loony bin for months."

"He was released."

"Yeah, as fun as _that_ has been, I don't even know who he is anymore."

"What if we could help?" Butch offered. "Would that make up for—"

"Shut up!" Tabitha snapped. "There is no way I'm doing anything for her!"

"Either we do or you're dead, Tabby."

They started to quibble further until Sylvia aimed the gun at the ceiling and shot off two rounds. Butch and Tabitha startled, looking at her.

"You can't _change_ him back to the man he used to be," Sylvia snarled at Butch. "Hugo Strange got into his head—and, hello—they don't exactly make this shit irreversible either. Something traumatic needs to happen, and I'm not about to let either of you do _anything_ to him! So, helping _me_ is off the table, although I do appreciate the sentiment, Butchy."

She hopped off the table.

Butch murmured, "Sylvia…I know you are angry right now, but you have to listen to me…."

"Fine."

"What?"

"I'm listening to you. Talk. Give me one damn good reason why I should let you two rascals live," Sylvia said sternly. "After all, you've done so much for me already!"

Butch held his hands up in surrender.

"We used to be friends, at one point," He reminded. "You used to confide in me."

"Yep, and then you got your mind all fixed up by this lovely, charming woman," Sylvia said ironically, gesticulating to Tabitha. "There was the end of _that_ friendship. Not to mention, Oz cut off your fucking hand _and—_ allegedly—killed Galavan. If anything, I would imagine you all would want to kill me. So why on earth should I trust that we could still work something out."

"Because despite all of that, I still care for you," said Butch lightly.

Tabitha looked appalled by the sentiment but Sylvia watched him with a dangerous gaze.

He continued to speak: "I know there's nothing you wouldn't do for Penguin—you've made that very, _very_ clear to us, but what if we promised we wouldn't do this again? What if we promised?"

"Either a foolish or stupid person would believe that. The funny thing is that I trust _you_ not to go behind my back," Sylvia said as she pointed at Tabitha with the barrel of her gun: "Her, not so much."

"Her life depends on it." Butch persuaded. " _My_ life depends on it too. We promise, Sylvia. We won't do anything like this ever again. I _swear_."

Sylvia looked at Butch for a moment, waiting for his words to slip or his expression to give away the slightest hint of deceit. But he seemed sincere enough. Tabitha, although reluctant to go along with his statement, seemed to be convinced that her boyfriend's and her life seemed more important than a silly empire. Even if it meant having to work under someone as tyrannical as Sylvia.

"Let's be clear. If you ever—and I do mean _ever—_ dare to contest me again, I won't be as forgiving."

"Yes, ma'am." Butch said, nodding his head vigorously.

"Don't make a fool out of me. I swear to god, Butch, I've been more lenient with you than with my own men."

"I understand."

"Good. What about you?" Sylvia asked as she turned to Tabitha who glared daggers at her. "Do _you_ understand?"

Tabitha made a hissing sound. So, Sylvia placed the gun to her throat; immediately, the woman struggled to give out another threatening retort but then, she became meek and submissive. That feeling made Sylvia feel pretty damn good about herself.

"Say that you understand."

"I…." Tabitha found her voice and managed through gritted teeth, "I understand."

"Good. Now get the fuck out before I change my mind."

Butch grabbed Tabitha's arm, pulling her out of the doorway.

Sylvia rubbed her head with the tips of her fingers, sitting on her throne. If only she knew then what she knew now about the headaches involved in ruling an empire, she'd have helped Falcone stay in business. By now, it was getting dark, and she looked outside to see that it had stopped raining.

The growing ominous feeling in her stomach hadn't left just yet. Something bad was on the horizon. And it wasn't until her phone had started ringing when the urge to run had finally started setting in. Picking up her phone, Sylvia tiredly placed it to her ear.

"Yeah?"

"Vee..."

"Jim?" She gasped, sitting up. She glanced at the Caller ID; it was unknown. "Jim, why are you calling me from a tollfree number?"

"I'm in jail."

"Jail? _Why_?"

"Pinkney."

"Pinkney— _what_?"

"I was set up," Jim said quickly. "I was—"

"—Set up, Jim, what—"

"Vee, they're only giving me two minutes to talk, so please, just let me talk, okay?"

"Ok…."

"The bomb at the bank, I used a crowbar to open the safe. The crowbar had my fingerprints on it. Earlier today, Harvey called, said that the bomb was activated remotely by phone. The call that detonated the phone came from a pay phone at Pinkney's apartment. When I went to investigate, Pinkney was dead—the crowbar was used to kill him. Barnes found me, said that IA's witness was Pinkney—"

"Jim, you didn't kill Galavan, _I_ did! How can they prove that you did something if you didn't even do it!"

"I don't know, Vee. But there's enough evidence stacked against me—it's enough to put me away for forty years. They've arrested me, booked me—"

"—Barnes can—"

"—He doesn't believe me!" Jim said desperately. "They're putting me in Black Gate, Vee! You know I didn't do it—"

"Jim, you can't go out like this! I'll go—I'll go and turn myself in. You can't go to jail for what _I_ did!"

"No, Vee. Don't turn yourself in! Stay where you're at, do _not_ turn yourself in!"

"Enough people have already sacrificed enough on my behalf!" Sylvia snapped, smacking her hand on the table. "I can't allow you to do this!"

"You have no choice."

"Oh, I do! I'll go there—I'm leaving now—"

"Vee! _Vee_!"

Sylvia hung up and started towards the door. Gabe was sitting on the couch and as Sylvia rushed by him, he stood and asked, "What's going on, Liv?"

"Jim's in trouble—I'll be right back!" Sylvia called.

Sylvia burst through the GCPD station.

Barnes, Harvey Bullock, and Ed Nygma, amongst many other officers, looked at her in surprise.

"Arrest me!" Sylvia shouted, advancing towards Barnes, who stared at her like she'd gone mad.

"For what?" Barnes questioned.

"I murdered Theo Galavan," Sylvia admitted loudly. "Oswald beat the shit out of him and I put a bullet in his head. I shot him at the pier, dumped him in the river. Jim didn't do anything, Captain. _I did_!"

"You're confessing to a murder with an already known culprit, Mrs. Cobblepot," Barnes said indignantly.

"I said 'arrest me', goddamnit!" Sylvia snapped. She grabbed Harvey's handcuffs from the inside of his jacket; Harvey stumbled back with shock while Barnes pulled out his own gun, aiming it at her.

"Now, see here, Cobblepot—you best calm the hell down!" He ordered. "You're upset, I get it—we all are—but you can't just come in and start grabbing things off of my officers!"

"Captain, put down the gun," Harvey warned. "It'll be easier if we—"

"Don't you fucking understand a word I just said!" Sylvia shouted. "Jim didn't kill Galavan. _I_ did."

"The evidence says otherwise."

"It was planted on him, Captain!" Harvey said, siding with Sylvia. "You _know_ he didn't kill Galavan."

"I know that Jim was at Pinkney's apartment," Barnes growled. "I know Officer Pinkney had a lot to discuss about Jim and _just_ when things were about to be brought to light, the same officer is dead with Jim standing over him. Tell me what I don't understand!"

"You're a fucking moron!" Sylvia snapped, pointing at him. " _I_ killed Galavan. _I_ fucking killed him, shot him more than once. There was a fucking umbrella shoved in his mouth. I know the details of the murder—tell me how I am not the fucking culprit!"

"I have fingerprints! I have fingerprints, a witness that says _Jim_ killed Galavan. You weren't involved, remember?"

"He lied for me," Sylvia responded heatedly. "All of them did—Jim, Oswald—I deserve to be put in prison! It's like you're trying to ignore the obvious! Now fucking _arrest_ me, goddamn it! or I will give you a fucking reason to arrest—"

"—YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN—"

"—I AM _FUCKING_ CALM! DO YOUR FUCKING JOB AND ARREST ME! —"

"—You need to step back! —"

"—Liv—"

"—Stay out of this, Harvey!"

"I SAID STEP BACK!" Barnes shouted, confronting Sylvia. He took a breather when his face started turning beat red.

Sylvia looked at him, ready to brawl.

Barnes looked at her, shaking his head, saying, "I wish the circumstances were different, Mrs. Cobblepot. God, I wish they were. But the evidence all points to Jim Gordon killing Galavan _and_ Officer Pinkney. We have the eye witness, who is dead, and Jim's fingerprints are all over the murder weapon."

"What about the report," Harvey reminded. "I called in the report—that's why Jim went to the apartment…."

"There's no evidence of that report," Barnes said breathlessly, leaning his body against a desk. "I don't have anything else to go on."

"Captain," Sylvia said, her voice broke. "Listen to me. _Please_. I'm telling you; I'm _begging_ you—please listen to me! Jim is innocent. He didn't kill anyone—not Galavan, not Pinkney—"

Barnes shook his head, saying, "I can't do anything else at this point, Sylvia. My hands are tied. Now…." (He took a deep breath.) "If I were you, I'd visit your brother while you still can. He's still in the holding cell down in IA…before they ship him off to Black Gate."

Sylvia looked at him, like she'd just been slapped with a book. As Barnes walked off, Harvey looked at her imploringly. But there was nothing he could say.

Ed Nygma, on the other hand, looked torn between feeling pretty damn proud of himself…. but also wishing he could take back everything he did. After all, it was he who had made Sylvia bring herself to this point. But not even an open confession had done what she wanted; that's how well Ed had planted all the evidence against Jim Gordon.

Sylvia watched Harvey and Barnes leave her side, and she looked beside herself.

The constant invasion of her empire, the lost connection between her and Oswald, and the piled evidence used against Jim to suggest that he was responsible for Galavan's murder despite Sylvia's open confession—it was as though her life was crumbling apart all over again.

Angry that Barnes did not believe in Jim enough to see reason, Sylvia left the station in a huff and headed towards Internal Affairs where Jim was being held for transport. She stormed inside, telling the guards to fuck off, before entering the little room where, currently, Lee was standing in front of the bars. Jim was standing on the other side of them; they were holding hands.

"We move on," Jim said quietly.

"Move on to _what_?" Lee whispered. Sudden realization hit her. "You mean me…. _I_ move on."

"I've thought long and hard about this."

"No!" Lee protested.

"You have to listen to me—"

" _I'm tired of listening_!" She responded. "This isn't fair! How can you not be with us?" (She took Jim's hand in hers, placing it over their unborn child.) "Birthdays, first words, first steps….and skinned knees. Everything."

Sylvia stayed back, looking anywhere but at Lee. Lee didn't even notice that she was there. Jim glanced at Sylvia before returning his gaze to Lee. The woman was in tears.

"What, visits through bars," Lee sobbed. "And n-not knowing when the phone will ring in the middle of the night to tell me when you—"

"I don't want any of that for either of you!" Jim said wistfully. "You still have a chance at happiness."

"No!"

"You need to go somewhere. Far from here. A place somewhere fit to raise our child. Forget I exist."

"I can't," Lee whispered. "I can't."

"You _have_ to."

Sylvia started forward, and Lee looked at her—perhaps not with shock, but with something else. Of course, she'd learn that her brother was being lugged to Black Gate; she had eyes everywhere. Seeing that Jim wasn't going to let up, Lee pressed her lips tightly together and cried, leaving the room, closing the door. By the sound of it, she was leaned against it, her back to them.

"Vee…." Jim said painfully. "I told you not to come."

"And _I_ said I was coming," Sylvia reminded stoically. She reached through the bars, and Jim took her hand in his, placing it over his chest.

"How's Oswald?"

"He's different. A lot different." She looked up at the bars saying, "I didn't think you'd ever be in _this_ situation."

"I didn't kill Pinkney—"

"I know you didn't," Sylvia said quickly. "I _know_ you didn't. I even told Barnes."

"And?"

"What do you think? He didn't believe me. Not even when I confessed to killing Galavan."

"You did _what_?"

"Oh, come on, Jim, you can't expect me to see both men in my life go to some cell for what _I_ did," Sylvia said, unable to hide the tears that started rolling down her cheeks. "It's bad enough they warped Oswald's mind in there—now _you_? You and Oswald are my only family…."

"Oswald's free."

"Physically, he is," Sylvia said sadly. "But the man I fell in love with is not the same man that came out of that asylum."

"So, we're all screwed, then."

"Pretty much."

One of the officers on Jim's side started forward, getting ready to move him. Sylvia looked at them coolly then to Jim.

"Make sure Lee's taken care of. Make sure she's safe." Jim told her.

"I will. You can count of me," Sylvia returned, giving him a small salute of her hand. "Bye, Jimmy."

"See you later, Vee."

Sylvia watched the officers take Jim away and out of the doors. She waited until the door completely closed then placed her head against the bars, closing her eyes. She drew in a long breath before exhaling deeply, then held her head high and walked out of the room. Lee was sitting on the ground, her knees pulled into her as she wept.

"Come on, girl..." Sylvia sighed, taking Lee's arm. "Let's get you home."

**Chapter 13: The Break Up**

Oswald was introduced to his father's other family: his wife, Grace, and her two children, Charles and Sasha. They did more than enough to welcome him to their home, a mansion that resided far from Gotham's boundaries, for which he was grateful.

"Will your wife be over soon?" Elijah asked as they all sat down for dinner; Helga, the keeper and cook, was just about to serve them.

"To my knowledge, she will be. She's been busy with the club."

"Where is this club?" Grace asked, placing the sherry drink to her lips.

"It's in Gotham." Elijah spoke on Oswald's behalf. "You've not met her, my dear. She's a taste of fire, isn't she, my boy?"

Oswald nodded, sharing a small laugh with Elijah. While it was true, however, Oswald couldn't help but feel a slight disconnection with Sylvia. He wasn't the only one that felt it, surely—while Sylvia looked at him in a way she always did, he felt withdrawn.

Anytime he saw her, he was reminded of what he'd done to other people: manipulated, lied…. killed. It wouldn't erase the way he felt about her—he knew he loved her. Just seeing Sylvia after having been away from her for months had his heart beating frantically against his ribs...her smile alone….

"How did you two meet?" Oswald asked, hoping to distract himself from his oppressive feelings regarding his marriage; Elijah and Grace looked at each other, both of whom seemed to blush for different reasons.

"Oh, that old story," Grace dismissed with an attempt to push the conversation towards something else.

Evidently, Elijah didn't get the hint because he began to revel in the story of just how Grace came to be in his mansion. First a consistent trip to the diner, and Grace to be his waitress each and every time. A suggestion that Grace and her family seek refuge at his home, away from an alleged abusive father….and a love that blossomed over time.

It was a beautiful love story. Oswald noticed that Grace looked a little ashamed, being mentioned as a waitress seemed to damage some self-esteem of hers, but she didn't speak a word of reproach.

"How did _you_ and…." Grace looked at Elijah for the cue.

"...Sylvia..."

"Ah, yes… _Sylvia_. How did you and your intended meet?" She asked, smiling politely.

Sasha and Charles glanced ironically at one another, but Oswald didn't notice. Just as he began to speak, there was a sound of a door closing.

"Mm," Grace hummed. "Speak of the devil and she shall appear."

Oswald and Elijah chuckled at that.

Sylvia came into the room, placing her purse on the floor. She wore a dark red, off-the-shoulder blouse, and a black, flowing skirt that cut off at mid-calf. The heels of her boots clicked against the linoleum, alerting all to her presence. When she entered, Elijah, Charles, and Oswald stood, smiling at her.

She noticed and smiled back at them.

"Fashionably late, my dear," Elijah greeted, smiling. "I hope things worked out for themselves at your club."

"A few belligerent guests," Sylvia returned politely. "Nothing I can't handle."

She approached the table, sliding beside Oswald who looked at her with a little smile of his own. Grace observed Sylvia in a way like the latter was a bug that needed to be squashed. Compared to the rest of them, she appeared out of place.

Sylvia placed her hand on the table, palm up; Oswald took it, holding her hand on the surface.

"What kind of club do you run in Gotham?" Sasha asked.

"A good one," Sylvia returned vaguely.

"You mentioned something had to be worked out," said Charles, looking at her curiously. "What happened?"

"Just people trying to take over management. A few of them needed their priorities sorted out, so I helped." She gave Charles a glance: "Who are you again?"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," Elijah said with a sly grin. "Sylvia, you've not met them. This is my step son and daughter—Charles and Sasha." He gestured to each person respectively. "And this is my wife, Grace."

Sylvia glanced over each of them and said flatly, "Charmed."

Oswald leaned into her and whispered, "Sylvia, be nice."

"I _am_ being nice. I said I was charmed."

"Where did you say you worked again?" Grace asked skeptically.

Sylvia sent her a look conveying annoyance. Already, these people were starting to burrow beneath her skin.

Apparently, Elijah sensed this tension for he said loudly, "I doubt Mrs. Cobblepot wants to talk about work; perhaps, we should discuss something else?"

"Yes." Sylvia said with a sarcastic smile, staring down Grace. " _We should._ "

Charles said with a mouth full of food: "I saw a ghost once."

And suddenly, that sparked a full table of discussion. Oswald side-glanced at Sylvia, who returned the look reproachfully.

"There was a pale old woman in a long black dress," Charles was saying, taking Oswald's attention from Sylvia to him. "It was creepy, man. And she stood this close!"

"What did you do?" Oswald asked.

"What else could I do? I ran, of course!" Charles laughed, earning a titter around the table.

"Do you believe in ghosts, Oswald?" Grace asked.

He replied, "Yes. I do."

"What about you, Sylvia?" Charles asked, looking at her.

"It depends."

"On?"

"Whether or not I killed them."

Only Elijah and Charles chuckled at that. Oswald looked horrified, while Sasha and Grace appeared uncomfortable. Elijah cleared his throat and said calmly, "Well, you'd be interested to know—the both of you—that we have plenty of ghosts in here. Several of them. But don't worry; they're all quite friendly."

"Don't listen to him!" Grace chortled, playfully nudging Elijah. "There are no ghosts here."

"Oh, there are ghosts here," Elijah said good-naturedly. "Lots of ghosts. This house was built my grandfather. He died here; his wife and his sister all passed away upstairs. And my poor dear parents. Yes…. many ghosts."

Sylvia teased, "Well, it must be quite the family reunion when Halloween comes around."

Elijah was amused, giving out a generous laugh while the others, including Oswald, still looked uncomfortable.

"Most of my family died in this house. The fact of it all, Oswald: you are—literally—my only real blood relative."

Oswald and Elijah shared a father-son moment. Sylvia on the other hand noticed that Grace looked less than happy about it; Charles and Sasha exchanged disgruntled expressions, and to add to the tension, Sasha broke a glass in her hand. It caused a commotion, but it was all smoothed over in a matter of seconds. Right after, Elijah proposed a toast; and all of them drank to it, excluding Sylvia, whose eyes narrowed as she watched the step family with suspicion.

Later that night, Sylvia had decided to spend the night at the Van Dahl mansion. More or less to make sure the family didn't try anything on Oswald. The gnawing suspicion in her gut would not let her lie still; after an hour of tossing and turning, she shouldered off the covers and started down the stairs where she sat in the living room.

Jim was in prison. Oswald was not acting like himself. Tabitha and Butch had now twice tried to usurp her authority, and she was spending the night under the roof with a family she could not trust to kill her with kindness.

"You're up late, my dear."

Sylvia startled, quickly getting to her feet to see Elijah coming down the stairwell and strolling into the room, wearing a white robe-like night gown and a cotton knit cap. He held a candle in his hand, lit aflame. Seeing her, his face contorted with first surprise then, second, admission of another feeling.

"I'm sorry," said Elijah. "I did not mean to startle you."

"These days I'm easily startled." She admitted, letting out a quivering laugh. "It's becoming a personality trait, actually."

Elijah encouraged her to sit after he made tea and placed a cup in front her, as well as one in front of him.

"You knew Gertrud, didn't you?"

He sat across from her; a small, round table in between them.

"I did."

"Oswald said she didn't live a happy life. But a good one," Elijah reminisced. "Is this true?"

"A lot more accurate than I care to admit," She replied, brushing a hand through her hair.

"He's also informed me that he was not the best son…."

"What are you getting at, Mr. Van Dahl? Are you fact-checking him? Wanna know if he's lying to you or…."

"No, no, no, my dear, no. Nothing of the sort. He just seems like a nice, young man, I find it hard to believe him," said Elijah gently.

"He _is_ a nice man."

"But, I'm sure as eggs, that he was not always good. You're his intended. I suspect you know his character a lot better than I do."

"You're not wrong."

"I'm not right either." Elijah chortled. He took a sip of his tea, and said lightly, "Do you have trouble sleeping?"

"Yes, but not for the reasons you would think."

"What reasons would they be?"

"Reasons that I doubt you'd have the privilege to understand. Mr. Van Dahl…."

"Please…call me 'Elijah'."

"Fine then. Elijah, you don't know me as well as you think you do."

"Perhaps not." He submitted. "But here are the things I do know. You love Oswald, and you care for him deeply. You're very protective of him. And you would do anything to make him happy. If this was the only thing I had the privilege to know about you, I'd say that would be enough."

Sylvia placed her chin in the palm of her hand: "Well, I guess I know now from which parent he gets his silver tongue. I'm still trying to decide from whom he gets his handsome looks; I'm suspecting it may come from his father."

Elijah chortled modestly.

"You have quite the silver tongue yourself, my dear. Tomorrow is going to be a beautiful morning. I'd wake up early for it, if I were you."

"Sure thing. Good night, Elijah."

"Good night, Sylvia."

Sylvia started up the stairs, and slipped inside the bedroom without so much as a peep. She closed the door with a click and lied down on the bed. Oswald was asleep on his back; his soft breathing and the slow rising of his chest were hypnotic. She snuggled closer to him. It was as close as she had been to him in a matter of days, and it felt so good. At the feeling of her, Oswald turned, moving closer to her.

"I love you, Ozzie." She whispered.

"As I love you," He murmured, half-asleep.

For a moment, it was normal. No worries. No doubts or suspicions.

She was almost asleep, until she felt a soft nudging against her thigh. She feigned sleep until she realized it was Oswald nudging her. He was still half-asleep, in the middle of the night, his hips thrusting against hers ever so gently and slowly. Sylvia smirked, feeling a little horny herself upon the realization. Poking out from his black pajama bottoms was his hard-on; what had incurred his mood, Sylvia didn't know—nor did she care.

She didn't even know if he was completely awake. She turned to him, wrapping a leg around his waist, allowing him to rub his stiffened bulge against her silky pajama pants. He'd barely said anything; just as she was about to speak, his mouth came crashing against hers. Hungrily.

"Someone's in a mood," Sylvia teased, her lips brushing against his.

His hands clung to the silky material of her blouse, running the pads of his fingers along the hem, as though begging for an invitation. Not only did his personality change, but his sexual mannerisms had changed as well. Any other time, Oswald would have taken what belonged to him—no permission of any sort. And it seemed to kill him wanting more but…. he was so submissive.

"Do you want me, Ozzie?" Sylvia asked softly, running her tongue over his bottom lip.

He nodded with a soft whimper, pushing his hips desperately against hers.

She climbed on him, knowing he wouldn't push her away, or try to gain the upper hand. Strange had really gotten into his head; there was not an ounce of aggression in his being. He looked up at her imploringly, his erection standing up through his pants. Sylvia stood to push down her pants and step out of both her underwear and pajamas, smiling mischievously when she saw his eyes widen.

He reminded her of a dog in heat; his hips never stopped moving, searching for any type of friction. Sylvia knelt down, straddled his hips and she lowered herself down to all fours, whispering in his ear, "Are you going to be a good boy, Ozzie?"

"Yes." He mumbled.

"Are you going to be quiet?" She asked, nibbling his earlobe.

Her voice reverberated a needy part of him, and made him shiver with an unexpected surge of delightful tingles.

"Y-yes."

Sylvia slipped her hand inside the waistband of his pants, watching his expressive face come to life when her fingers wrapped around his stiff cock.

"Mmm. Is Oswald excited?" She teased; her thumb prodded the slit of his cock head. "Oh, I think he is."

His hands stayed on the bed, fingers palming and clutching the sheets. He lifted his head to kiss her; Sylvia placated him, shoving her mouth against his. He let out an eager moan.

"Were you having dreams about me?"

He nodded.

"Naughty, wet dreams?"

"Mmm..."

"I take that as a 'yes'."

She kissed him again; then her lips left his. She moved his pants and underwear down his legs. He watched her attentively, his eyes widening then closing in bliss when she took his cock in her mouth, her tongue swirling around as she sucked. His back arched in response; his lips parted in skin-tingling pleasure.

"I want you…" He whimpered.

"I know you do, baby." Sylvia condescended, licking the head of his cock gingerly. "But I have to have my fun with you first."

She half-expected him to experience a surge of hostility. Something similar to the way the past Oswald would respond after she teased him for so long. Instead, he submitted, relenting to wait out her fun so he could gather his reward. In all honesty, his lack of fight and fire almost turned her off.

Almost.

She couldn't deny that hearing his adamant soft moans spurred her on. Her hand slipped under his pelvis, her fingers cupping and massaging his balls. He gripped the bed sheets, knuckles paling; and he bit his bottom lip so that no one in the house could hear him.

The titillating idea of being caught was almost worth the risk of making him scream.

"You like me on top, don't you?" Sylvia purred. She lifted his cock to slide between the lips of her heat, just along her wet entrance. "Don't you…Hmm?"

"Yes, yes, god, yes…." Oswald whispered like a prayer.

His back arched again when the head of his cock touched her clit. Sylvia slowly pushed him inside of her, lowering herself onto him until he was in balls-deep. Oswald let out a loud moan; Sylvia clamped a hand over his mouth, smirking at him.

She'd nearly forgotten how vocal he was!

She began to ride him, slowly. Intimately.

She lowered her body onto his so even her taut nipples grazed his chest. His eyes closed in ecstasy; his hands rubbed up and down her back in appreciation.

"That's it, baby. It feels good, doesn't it?" Sylvia whispered into his ear.

He nodded, gratefully licking the palm of the hand that kept his mouth shut. She moved in a rhythm that he matched, and it took everything it had in her not to start moaning her heart out. Oswald seemed content to let her manhandle him as she pleased.

Sylvia took her hand from his mouth and kissed him, inwardly smiling proudly when he quickly tried to show his love for her with deep, passionate kisses. She caught his hands that tried caressing her face and pinned them above his head; he looked at her in surprise, but smiled when she continued to kiss him.

His cock moved in and out of her slick heat. A pressure building inside her core. Sylvia locked her mouth over his when she felt herself come, her cunt clenching around his cock and pulling an involuntary moan out of him as he spilled his seed inside of her.

Sylvia kissed his cheek, and he looked at her with relief.

It might have been an hour later, but she was still awake.

"You've changed a great deal, haven't you, Oz?" Sylvia said quietly as she nuzzled his neck.

"I'd say you have too." He mumbled.

She looked at him, startled.

"I thought you were asleep."

"I wasn't."

"Clearly. But you're wrong: I haven't changed at all."

"Maybe that's something to consider."

Sylvia sat up, looking at him.

"Meaning what exactly?"

He sat up too. He fidgeted with the hem of the comforter, more intent on avoiding her eyes than seeing whatever emotion would appear on her face if he spoke.

"You want to tell me something. Tell me what you feel."

Oswald looked at her.

"You know I love you, don't you?" (She nodded.) "And I would do anything for you."

"Of course." Sylvia stated. "But that's not what you want to tell me, is it?"

"Sylvia, I've come to realize that I love you a great deal. More than I can ever put into words, but there's something missing between us. I've felt it. Haven't you?"

She bit her lip.

"What if I haven't?"

"You _have_. I can see it in your eyes."

"So, we've lost a connection. You've been gone for months, stuck in an asylum. We've gotten over a lot worse. And we can get through this."

Oswald cleared his throat and placed her hand over his heart, looking at her: "Sylvia…. I love you. But not in the same way I used to love you. I don't know if that makes any sense…. I suppose it doesn't. But you and I both know I am not the same man I used to be. I'm unable to love you in the same way I used to."

Sylvia said sadly, "You're breaking up with me, aren't you?"

"It's not that…."

"Then what else is _this_?" She questioned, getting out of bed and looking at him. "What, you think you can go to Arkham for a few months, and then suddenly you're cured of all the bad things you've done and I'm what—your X factor? A trigger, a remembrance to all your ugly past deeds?"

Oswald gazed at her uncertainly; whether he admitted it or not, his silence seemed to be the answer. She couldn't deny that she was hurt.

She said spitefully with teary eyes, "I'm a trigger, right? I'm the thing that symbolizes all of your sins."

"It's not that!"

"You know, if that was all to it, I could understand why you wouldn't want to be around me anymore. What confuses _me_ is despite your 'rehabilitation' your subconscious dreams up all of the things we've done, and you wake up in the middle of the night wanting to fuck me. You either want me or you don't—so which one is it!"

He stared at her, unable to answer her question.

"You think I'm a bad influence, right?" She said, pointing at him.

"Well, you use violence to solve your problems. Violence isn't the answer."

"Oh, it's not?"

"That's what Hugo has shown me."

"That's not you, Oswald!" Sylvia said dishearteningly. "Hugo Strange is an idiot."

"That's another thing: Anger isn't going to help—"

"'Anger and violence aren't the answers'? Are you kidding me! Baby, anger and violence has been my _only_ way of coping with all the shit that I've been going through. Between Tabitha and Butch trying to destroy everything you and I built together, and my fucking brother going to prison…"

Her voice broke, and Oswald's eyebrows raised at her proclamation about what had happened with Jim. He hadn't been aware. But that didn't make a difference.

She gathered her clothes from the night before.

"You know what…" Sylvia said heatedly. "I'm going back to the mansion. I still have loose ends to tie up and I sure as hell can't do that _here_. Especially with that new _family_ of yours."

"They're good people, Sylvia…."

"Good people? _Good people_?" Sylvia exclaimed, dropping her clothes.

"They are."

"You're so concerned with me being violent? At least I'm openly aggressive. Your stepfamily—Grace, Sasha, and Charles—are no better than me. _Worse_ , actually."

Her voice somehow balanced between hysterical crying and meticulous calm.

"Sylvia, can't you see—"

"—They have a plan in place to get rid of either you or Elijah, or both. I don't know what they're planning, but I'm sure it's nothing good."

Thinking this was impossible, Oswald protested, "They're my family."

"They're _his_ family," Sylvia hissed. "They're not _yours_. Wanna know what family is, Ozzie? It's people who care for you, love you unconditionally. Elijah may be your family, but _they_ are not. They're liars. They're criminals…. _worse_ …."

"I can't believe that. I can't. I…."

As hurt as she felt by his rejection, there was something much darker at play, and she could see it by the confusion and denial in his eyes. When she did, Sylvia's heart ached with the familiar need to protect him, but the pain of not being able to persuade him to her logical thinking was what hurt more.

Gently, she caressed his face between her palms.

"You're a lost soul, Ozzie. Lost and irrevocably misplaced. And that's not your fault. That fault belongs with Strange."

Oswald stared at her; he was at a loss for words.

Seeing that there was no getting through to him, Sylvia smiled sadly, knowing he couldn't accept her words fully.

Her lips brushed against his as she whispered, "I love you, darling. I'll always be here for you. When you remember who you are—you know where to find me."

She kissed his cheek and then left the mansion without another world while Oswald remained sitting on the bed, looking in the direction where she had gone.

**Chapter 14: Secrets Spoken In The Snow**

In the time that passed, Sylvia became more paranoid. The only people she trusted belonged to her inner circle: Dagger, Chilly, Gabe, Brittany, Delilah, and Mr. Bell. Everyone else was either an enemy or an acquaintance she barely let step twenty feet closer to her. Aside from Ed, her friends were few and far between.

Weeks had passed.

She and Oswald were separated and her brother was still serving time for crimes he didn't commit.

Her power struggle with Tabitha and Butch was surprisingly short-lived when neither of them dared to contest her for a third time. And this was due to the last example made when Drake Anderson tried to go behind her back and make deals with the other contenders. Word got out, and Sylvia smashed his head into the carpet with a cinder block.

While she had been very tolerant of insubordination, even to the point where she behaved almost diplomatically, it seemed like the last of her patience had been exuded after Anderson's death got out. It was bound to happen; he was a made man within the Anderson Family, and the father was so devastated that he'd sent a hitman after Sylvia; luckily, for her, Victor Zsasz knew said hitman, offered him a deal, and the contract was swept under the rug.

Her temper was getting the best of her, but not without a fight. When after she found out through a thug that it was the senior Anderson who had put a hit out on her, Sylvia also discovered from the same source that her brother had been busted out of jail. No one knew how or why, but he was out and lurking around Gotham somewhere.

She figured Jim would have come to her. Then again, knowing her affiliation with the baddies who would be more than willing to catch him for a price, the odds of Jim asking for her help were little to none.

Odds are, he'd found out about Lee and how she'd lost the baby. The news was devastating to begin with, and it pained Sylvia to know it...but there wasn't much to be done about it. And going after Lee would only make things harder for the doctor, wouldn't it? After all, Sylvia was Jim's sister. Just that knowledge alone would erase all the work Lee had done in order to move on.

Occasionally, Ed made the visit to see how well Sylvia was doing. She didn't really say much of anything. And with that said, Ed couldn't offer much advice. He knew once he'd started talking, all of his secrets—including the one about framing Jim Gordon—would leak out and then, oh boy, he'd be in a shit of trouble.

He hadn't even considered the possibility of getting arrested by the officers. He was just too wound up about what Sylvia would do if she found out. He'd made it impossible for anyone to know it was him: disguised his voice, that sort of thing.

That had been easy enough.

But then…. lo and behold, Jim popped up out of nowhere. He had to improvise, tell him that there was no way of figuring out the voice that had reported the crime to IA. Jim saw Ed as a friend; that was easy enough to use. But then, of course, Jim had to make things so much more difficult.

The tape came clean. And because of that, so had Ed.

Now here they were. With Ed dragging Jim by the feet to the trunk of his car, banking on the fact that he'd have to not only move Kristen Kringle but make room for Jim's dilapidated body, it was going to be an all-nighter. That's why Ed packed a few expressos.

"I hope you like outdoors, Jimbo," Ed mused as he opened the trunk. "I know just the spot."

He turned. And the body was gone. He looked up, and Jim was climbing into a window. Ed whipped out the gun, started shooting, but Jim was a slippery bastard. Even though he got him with a round, Jim still evaded.

"Damn it!" Ed grunted.

He ran inside the building. Looked like a factory of some sort. Ed looked left and right, but saw no Jim Gordon. No surprise there.

"Come out, come out, where ever you are!"

He started strolling forward. Cautiously.

"I bet you're wondering 'why would Ed do this to me? Set me up. Ruin my life.' I'll give you a hint, Jimbo. K.K."

Ed heard Jim's uttered answer ("Kristen Kringle") and he was chasing after him like a dog after a mongoose. And just as quickly, he'd lost him. Well…back to the drawing board.

Ed would have to rebury Kristen, hide her body.

 _You idiot_.

Ed sighed, looking up at the sky as he started uprooting the snowy soil from Kristen's burial plot. Not _this_ guy again.

As though the darker Edward heard him (and, let's be honest, he did), the man materialized up out of the ground, sitting on the snow as though it was a comfortable blanket rather than cold precipitation.

"Sylvia was right. You really don't know what you're getting into. She _knew_ you'd buckle under the pressure…one body in the ground, and you're going bat shit crazy, aren't ya?"

Ed grumbled as he stomped the shovel deep into the snow, saying, "I'm not listening to you. You might as well just go away."

"This was a terrible way to go."

"I planned it _perfectly_ ," Ed snapped, glaring at his mirrored self. "And you _know_ it. Gordon is sneaking around; Bullock's no better. It…"

"She said it was only a matter of time. You know what, I'll cut you a break. You lasted a _lot_ longer than I thought you would. With the bird and her all but divorced, that would have been your golden opportunity to step in as the triumphant hero, but no…you got cold feet."

Ed murmured, "She's been in a bad temper, mind you. And thanks to _you_ " (He thrusted a finger towards the other Edward) "she won't let me get another inch near her."

"Well, bud, you kissed her."

"No, _you_ did! If we did what _I_ wanted, we wouldn't be in this situation right now. We wouldn't be digging up Ms. Kringle, because she wouldn't have liked the confident you. And we wouldn't even be in this situation because she wouldn't be dead _because_ we wouldn't have stepped thirty-five feet towards her."

"Kringle wouldn't be dead, but you'd still want Sylvia," reminded Edward.

"She has more things to worry about than a relationship."

"Yeah, because you put her brother in jail."

"He was getting too close," Ed argued. "He would've found Kringle."

"What happens when Sylvia finds out what you've done?" Edward laughed. "Oh man! She is going to be punitive with you!"

"She's going to be mad at you too, you know."

"Yeah, but I'm not the one in control right now, am I?" Edward scoffed.

"I'm ignoring you now."

He was just about to pick up the box when he heard a twig snapping. He slowly put down the shovel, then took the gun from his innermost pocket, pointing it behind him, facing that direction.

"Jim Gordon…." Ed drawled. "So, you found Penguin, huh. And that little bird sang. He told you what happened to Ms. Kringle, didn't he?"

"No." Jim answered, holding up his hands in surrender. "I just followed you."

"Of course." Ed muttered, looking up at the sky. "That's the plot twist of a century, isn't it?"

"How did this happen to you? How did you become this?"

Ed lowered the gun for a second, saying practically, "It's funny you say that, Jim. I've _always_ been this. It just took me some time to admit it to myself. And a few incidents in between….and murdering some people."

"I don't believe that."

"You don't believe that? Why, Jim. Because it would make you incompetent to know that I was right under your nose? Or you don't want to admit that there's a monster in all of us—because _you of all people should know that_!" Ed shouted, then he laughed, "That's what made it so easy for me to frame you!"

"I was your friend."

"Were you, Jim? Were you my friend? Or did you just pity me? 'Poor little Ed with his silly little wordplay and his riddles'."

"I considered you my friend."

"The fun part about that is that I almost thought you were. Now, Sylvia—on the other hand—she's a real friend, you know. She never betrayed me….even with her knowing what happened to Ms. Kringle, _and_ Dougherty. But let's be honest—none of us liked him. But Sylvia….She forgives, and forgets—"

"Her forgiveness isn't cheap," said Jim darkly. "You have to earn it."

"That, we both can agree on. I heard Drake Anderson got his head smashed in with a brick after she found out he was trying to go behind her back." Ed smirked. "It would turn a lot of guys off—that kind of temper—but I find that it just keeps pulling me right back."

"When Vee finds out what you've put me through—"

"How will she find out, if you're dead," Ed offered logically. "If killing you is going to be anything like framing you, I imagine it'll be easy as pie."

"You're completely insane."

"Yeah. Well…it's probably easier for you to think that. How about one last riddle for old time's sake?"

"Sure. Why not."

"A nightmare for some. For others, a savior, I come. My hands, cold and bleak. It's the warm hearts, they seek." Ed riddled. "What am I?"

"Death."

"Right again," said Ed, giving him a thumb's up. He turned that thumb's up into a wave of good-bye. Just as he was about to shoot Jim, he heard Barnes shout at him.

He tried to tell him that he was arresting Jim, but apparently, they'd heard the entire thing.

He tried to make a run for it, but clumsily tripped over a log.

Everyone pointed their guns at him; Ed looked up from his place in the snow, and quickly held up his hands.

"Oh, crud."

**Chapter 15: I Did It For You**

Sylvia received a letter.

Because Brittany took care of _Lean on Vee's_ ins and outs as Sylvia's second-in-command and scheduled maintenance as needed (having become her other Tiffany Rubberdale, so to speak) and because Mr. Bell was the bookkeeper for the criminal activities, nothing of value came in the mail for her.

Nothing but this letter.

Sylvia sat in the Meeting Room as she took it from Mr. Bell, who also placed a cup of tea in front of her. She thanked him quietly, before opening the envelope with uncertain fingers, dreading the worst.

First, she noticed it was Oswald's handwriting. A certain ache found its way to her heart, and Sylvia bit her lip when she began reading it.

' _Pigeon,_

_Please come to the Van Dahl mansion. I need to speak with you._

_Truly Yours,_

_Oswald'_

The letter itself was short and simple, but the meaning behind it was complex. Sylvia held the letter to her chest, and smiled at Mr. Bell who readily smiled in return.

"I'll be back." She said, standing and taking her coat. "Would you…."

"I'll look after things until you return, yes, ma'am." Mr. Bell reassured.

Quickly, Sylvia got into her car and headed towards the Van Dahl mansion. She'd only been there twice—the first time was meeting Van Dahl in a more comfortable setting instead of a cemetery. The second and last time was when she spent the night with Oswald…. things didn't end too well on either end, but the memory was sentimental in value.

Sylvia parked the car in front of the mansion, taking long, deep but subtle breaths. She had to prepare herself. She wasn't certain if Oswald had come to his saner wits, but the letter itself had addressed her in a way only the real Oswald would have. A glimmer of hope.

She turned off the car and stepped out of the vehicle, holding onto the letter. Her white, three-inch heels clicked on the concrete; her equally white knee-high, flowing dress, seemed to ripple in the chilling breeze. She shrugged away the wintry feeling, tightening her coat closer to her body.

She opened the door. The horror cliché of the creaky hinges did nothing for her nerves. Stepping over the threshold, closing the door behind her, it was as though the air around her had spiked ten degrees when the heat of the fireplace hit her so quickly. Sylvia placed her coat on the couch, calling out, "Oswald?"

No answer.

She bit her lip nervously, looking all around. She was half-surprised not to see Sasha or Charles…. or Grace, for that matter. Seeing no one in the living room, she ventured into the kitchen; no one was there either, so her next stop was the dining room. Sylvia caught a leering presence at the table; a woman enjoying her dinner too much. The woman's head was literally lying on the platter.

"Grace?" Sylvia said quietly.

She rounded the table, and pulled the woman's shoulder back. Her throat was slit, her eyes staring into nothingness. Sylvia startled, only because she hadn't been expecting it.

"Holy shit…." She mumbled.

" _I wouldn't be too disappointed, if I were you."_

"OH FUCK!"

She jumped and turned to see Oswald Cobblepot rounding the corner, his body leaned up against the wall lazily, his arms crossed over his chest. With the shock fading away as fast as it had come, she quickly clamped a hand over her mouth; a sliver of embarrassment from being so easily startled dusted her cheeks in a bright shade of pink.

"She's normally more talkative than this," Oswald joked, grinning. He acknowledged the dead woman, saying, "Don't be rude, Grace. Say 'hello'."

Sylvia didn't expect her to return the greeting, but it was funny in a dark way. Oswald shrugged when no responses came and he walked towards Sylvia, who looked him up and down, noticing there was blood on his neck, the cufflinks of his green plaid suit, and on his chest.

"Oz, you're…." She said surprisingly, gesturing to him.

"Back to normal, I daresay." He returned, smiling sheepishly at her.

"Why did you…."

She looked at Grace…. or at least, what used to be Grace.

"Kill her?" Oswald offered, finishing her question.

She nodded.

"She killed my father." He sat in a seat beside Grace. "She, along with the help of my step-siblings, conspired against him for his fortune and ultimately killed him. They poisoned him. He died in my arms. I didn't know it was them until –as if by happenstance—I came by the sherry decanter."

Sylvia stared at him then glanced at Grace's surprised, dead expression. She leaned her back against the table, standing in front of and slightly adjacent to Oswald, who watched her with a look of expectation.

"I see." She uttered, looking at the dead body. "Well, that certainly explains the demise of your stepmother. But what about her kids? Sasha and what's-his-face."

"Sasha and Charles? They're on the table." He grinned widely, nodding to the table. "Can't you tell?"

She noticed the old roasted slices on platters.

"You let a good roast go to waste. You could have put it in the refrigerator."

"Trust me, Pet. No cook with half a brain or an ounce of pride would serve the likes of them to you," He reassured, grinning up at her.

She returned the coy little smile. Inadvertently as she did, her hand touched Grace's arm, but she didn't even flinch. She sent the corpse a sharp glance.

Sylvia said softly, "I got your letter."

Oswald stood and tucked his hands in his pockets, his back straightening: "You're here…. I would have assumed that you did."

"You said you wanted to talk," She said seriously. "So, what did you want to talk to me about?"

Oswald approached her, standing so close to her that she could smell the wine on his breath, the blood on his suit. It was an interesting combination, one that Sylvia was all too familiar with. He looked her up and down; and she mirrored him in the same aspect, although her eyes reflected uncertainty whereas he appeared entitled to stand this close to her.

"A number of things," He answered, slowly removing his hands from his pockets to fold together. "First to say that you were right about them, my 'family'—you tried to warn me about their ulterior motives. At the time, I thought you were trying to thwart me. I didn't listen to you. Had I done so, my father may very well still be alive. You were trying to protect me, and I didn't believe you. For that, I am sorry."

Her brain started getting a little fuzzy; her legs getting weak when he cradled her face between his hands, his thumbs caressing over her cheeks like she was the most precious flower in all of the lands. Feeling his touch, Sylvia covered his wrists with the palm of her hands, disbelieving that the shy, innocent, soft-spoken man she'd left in the mansion was the same man standing before her.

There were moments between them shared, during which she couldn't believe he could be the same innocent-minded, naive, child-like wonder one second, then a bloodthirsty, violent man in the next. In one minute, Oswald could reveal an insurmountable number of expressions and personalities. And she'd missed this…. missed _him._ She licked her lips nervously—her nerves relying on her fluttering heart, and the way he watched her.

"Pigeon, you must know I didn't mean any of the things I said," Oswald said apologetically, his eyes searching hers for forgiveness. "I wasn't thinking straight. I wasn't myself."

"I know. I knew once you remembered who you were, you'd come back to me."

"Or rather _you_ would find _me_." Oswald teased, slyly smiling at her.

"Of course. I knew where you lived."

"Out of context, that sounds like stalking."

He lowered his hands to her shoulders; her fingers moved to his tie, fiddling with the knot. Just to be touching him again was another feeling altogether.

"If it makes you feel any different, I also like watching you sleep," She winked at him. "I knew you'd remember who you are. Although, I figured your amnesia might have lasted a little longer. What prompted it?"

"Seeing the decanter."

She nuzzled his neck with her nose and Oswald smiled as she licked the skin beneath his jaw. The urge to feel closer to her was becoming a nuisance, but a pleasant one. He moved forward, planting his palms on the surface of the table, placed on either side of her. She wrapped her arms around him, bringing him closer to her.

"That sounds traumatic," Sylvia looked at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry about your father. He seemed like a nice man."

"He was…."

"But?"

"Knowing both of my parents loved me unconditionally has been a pleasant discovery," Oswald said quietly. "But neither of them knew the real me."

"Your dad knew. He told me you told him all the things you'd done."

"Not all of it was regrettable. If he'd known that part of me, I doubt he would have been so forgiving."

Sylvia ran her hands through his hair, gently massaging his head. Playfully, she tugged at the roots, and Oswald exhaled an amused, breathy laugh.

"You know everything about me."

"That, I do."

"And you still love me?" Oswald asked. He wanted validation. "After everything I said to you—"

"Always." She whispered. "As with your parents, my love for you is unconditional. I'd love you if you had never done a single bad thing in your life, or if you killed people just for fun. As fun as it was seeing your innocent mind wander, I personally am glad you're back to your normal self."

"'Glad', huh?" Oswald said cheekily. "I'd love to know why."

"You and I may not always agree on _everything;_ that keeps us constantly guessing each other, it keeps things unpredictable. Even if you were someone completely different, there's always going to be one bond that we share."

"And what is that, I wonder."

Sylvia kissed his cheek, whispering lovingly, "You have a darkness like mine."

"Mm. I suppose we _do_ have that in common."

"Yes, and as much as I love your sweet, innocent _other_ you…without your criminal side, things would have gotten really boring. In all seriousness, though…I missed you."

Something lit a fire inside of him. Perhaps it was the way her body brushed against him, like a soft but knowing nudge against the place he was starting to crave her the most.

"You wanted to talk, and so we've talked." Sylvia said, smirking at him.

"That we have."

He pushed himself against her, licking her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue as he murmured, "Do you know what I want to do now?"

"I can't say I do." Sylvia teased. Her arms folded behind his back. "Mm. I'm not a mind reader."

"What if I gave you a hint."

He lowered his hand from the small of her back and slid it up her dress and over the material of her underwear, cupping her pussy with the palm of his hand. He rubbed her clit with the pad of his thumb through her panties, while he slipped his tongue between her lips for a tender kiss.

"Not in front of your stepmother—that's weird," She chastised, pushing her hands against his chest.

"Feeling shy, are we?" Oswald said, unable to hide his entertainment between kisses. "She's dead, Pigeon."

Her eyebrow quirked upwards: "No respect for the dead, huh?"

"On a contrary. I have an incredible amount of respect for the dead. Just not for _her_."

"Shameless…." She laughed.

He silenced her objections with a kiss, finding her tongue and rubbing it with his own. His taste was intoxicating, and the feel of his thumb rubbing circles around and then over her clit was riding out her inhibitions; his other hand in her hair, untangling her ponytail so he could freely grab onto any of her locks.

Her hands lowered to his chest, grabbing the lapels of his suit.

"Baby…."

"What is it, Pigeon?"

"I want you."

"I can tell." Oswald said sheepishly. To prove a point, he dipped his fingers inside the front of her panties, feeling her heat.

Sylvia bit her bottom lip.

"How much do you want me?"

Her jaw clenched as she murmured, " _Badly_."

"'Badly'?" Oswald repeated, smirking at her. "That's quite a lot."

Sylvia brought her hand down to his pants, feeling the stiff bulge there. He let out an involuntary moan when her fingers stroked his cock through the material.

"Looks like you want me just as much," She said proudly.

She slid her hand between the waistband of his slacks and his bare stomach, rubbing her palm down to his naked cock; he inhaled sharply when her fingers wrapped around it in a firm hold.

"Ooh, someone's a little excited, Mr. Penguin."

Her tongue ran over his bottom lip, and her teeth grazed his chin and jaw as she kissed his neck, tasting him. Her thumb rolled over the slit of his cock head, teasing it and the rest of him.

"Let's take him out to play, hm?" She whispered, unzipping his fly and loosening his belt to allow his cock to come out freely. And she did it all so slowly and patiently.

Oswald clicked his tongue, and with a growl, he grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her through the kitchen and into the living room. Sylvia giggled, although she had to hold onto the roots from where he grabbed her, making sure he didn't pull it completely out of her scalp.

He pushed her onto the couch; she landed on her back, falling into the cushions. She chuckled when he was already moving on top of her, planting hungry kisses over her blouse top, up the column of her throat and meeting her lips with an intense, passionate kiss of his own. She met him with the same heat.

Oswald was kissing her neck and running his hands up and down her dress, feeling all of her. She reached up, leveling the field and grabbed his hair, yanking it back so Oswald groaned; she kissed his Adam's apple, running her tongue over it; it bobbed when he gulped.

He tugged the V-neck of her shirt down, exposing a braless breast. Lowering his head, he suckled on her taut mound, rolling his tongue around it, one of his hands playing with the other—Sylvia wiggled underneath him, aching for more control but equally wishing to be dominated.

He stood up suddenly, and Sylvia grinned widely when he shrugged off his waist coat, sliding his tie off shortly after, and unbuckling his belt. All of this was done in haste, like he couldn't wait to take her. She quickly moved to her knees, smiling up at him with puppy dog eyes as he pulled down his trousers.

"Does Pigeon want a taste?" Oswald asked sardonically. "Is that what she's asking?"

She nodded eagerly.

He stroked his cock, watching her mouth practically water with want.

"Beg for it, darling. Tell me how much you want it."

She licked her lips, and crawled to him on her hands and knees.

"I want it," She said sweetly. "Please, sir, can I have it?"

"Look at you saying 'please' and 'sir'," Oswald praised. "So sweet and polite, aren't you, Pet? Come and get it."

He gave her the signal of 'come hither', and she eagerly moved towards him. She opened her mouth, and tasted the head of his cock, running her tongue up and down his shaft slowly. Oswald groaned; he grabbed her hair none too gently, and growled, "Enough of that. Don't tease, Sylvia."

She grinned at the response. _That's_ what she wanted to hear.

Eager to please him, Sylvia took him in her mouth completely, sucking, making things messy. He sounded off beautifully, soft moans at first then achingly needy. Her fingers dug into his buttocks, pulling him forward so she could take even more of him.

"Oh, hell…." He groaned.

He pulled her off him just as he was about to come; he was panting.

"You know how to do that so well, don't you, Pet?" Oswald said breathlessly. "Fuck…. I love your enthusiasm."

Sylvia licked her lips.

"You can have me anyway you like, Oz. On the couch…"—She lowered herself to the floor, lying on her back— "We can do it right here on the floor...like a couple of teenagers."

Oswald gazed down at her, vexed between wanting her on the bed or taking her now as she presented herself to him. Being one of patience, he'd normally take it up to the bedroom, but—

He lowered himself to the floor, and watched her pull the throw pillows and blanket off the couch and placing them around to make the ground more comfortable for the both of them. He really did take her for granted sometimes, Oswald cared to note.

In front of the fireplace on a cold winter day. This was more romantic than intended.

They undressed each other, with the force of patience and Sylvia's half pint of self-control. When neither of them had any clothes left to shred, and she was distracted, he pinned Sylvia on her back, smirking down at her; she returned it.

"Got a few control issues to work out, Mr. Penguin?" She remarked, licking her bottom lip with relish.

"Between the two of us, I believe I am the _only_ one exercising any type of control for the moment."

"Is _that_ right?"

"Yes, Pet," Oswald said, kissing her neck.

"Well, what self-control I lack, you seem to more than make up for it," Sylvia noted, lifting her head up, tilting it to the side smartly. "By the way, I've had _more_ than enough self-control running the empire alone. You should be damn proud of _that_ , sir."

Oswald raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he grinned: "Oh-ohhh, is that so?"

"Yes, it _is_ so." Sylvia returned, lowering her head back to the floor. "I've never been more exhausted in my entire life. Fucking lunatics running around, destroying shit—idiotic men getting drunk when they're supposed to be working—it's enough to drive me crazy. And I've just about had it with—mmmm…."

He shoved his mouth on hers, crushing her rant and pulling a moan out of her.

"Don't worry, Pigeon. I'm in charge now," Oswald uttered, nipping at her bottom lip. "Just relax."

"Says you. Have you ever tried to relax? It's a paradox."

"Perhaps I can assist."

"What are you…." Her voice trailed off when he moved himself down her body, trailing kisses down her chest, over her stomach, until his head was between her legs.

Oswald let out a satisfied sigh, the vibrations of the sound on her clit made Sylvia shiver. Delicious chills ran up and down her spine, a delightful tingle.

"Look at you," He whispered.

She moaned when his tongue licked inside her slit, tasting her excitement. His hands remained on her breasts, the index finger of each hand lazily circling each nipple, sending a toe-curling tingle throughout her body. The shiver even circled to her head.

"You're so wet already. You love sucking my cock, don't you, Pigeon?"

She nodded quickly, hoping he wouldn't stop teasing her.

"Yes, I know you do. Such a good girl."

His praise made her insides squirm.

Oswald kissed the swollen nub that was her clit, licking over and around it. He watched her stomach quiver with involuntary contractions, the way her inner thighs twitched and shook as he slowly brought her to a small, albeit bodily strong orgasm. When she let out a stream of whimpers and soft moans, he knew it without a doubt. Once more, he lapped up her excitement, tasting her sweet honey.

Oswald moved to his hands and knees, lining his hips with hers, moving between her legs, wincing when a surge of desire plagued him when he felt the hot, slippery wetness of her cunt make contact with his stiff cock; it pulsed with the knowing he'd be inside of her.

Sylvia lifted her head, her mouth touching his ear; she nibbled on him, and licked appreciatively.

"Are you relaxed now?" He asked knowingly.

"Quite. You can be very persuasive."

"I know I can."

" _So_ fucking cocky."

"Yeah, but you like that, don't you?"

He lowered his body onto hers, loving the way she sighed under his weight, how safe he knew she felt whilst under him. Oswald rubbed his cockhead between the lips of her wetness, enjoying the sound of her eager whimpers.

He slowly entered her, loving every soft keen that escaped her lips and resonated in his ears. Oswald covered her mouth with his own, tasting her fire. Her moans vibrated within his mouth, and his slow thrusts pulled many hungry whimpers from her.

"God, I've missed you," He murmured against her lips.

"I've missed you too…." She wrapped her legs around his waist, eagerly pulling him deeper inside. "Oh, _fuck_ …god!"

Sylvia met his thrusts with each of her own as he rolled his hips into hers.

The sound of the crackling fire; the static of the radio sounding from the end table; the rustling of the blanket and the carpet as they made love in the living room; and the subtle howling wind outside were all the sounds heard inside the Van Dahl mansion.

Slow, deep thrusts became faster and harder. The peak just on the horizon, the climax so close it was too terrible to think about stopping. Nails scrapped down backs and thighs, blood oozed where nails had dug; she could feel the rug burn underneath her back and buttocks as Oswald pounded deep inside of her.

"Fuck!" Sylvia cried. Just as she did, her entire world became intangible; her head was fuzzy; the explosion inside her core became strong, undeniable bliss; her body contracted, her back arched, and for a second, she wasn't even sure where she was.

"I'm close!" Oswald panted.

"Keep going," Sylvia said breathlessly. "Don't stop…."

He was desperately climbing up the pinnacle, so close but yet so far.

Sylvia smirked up at him, knowing just what he needed. She sat up quickly, throwing him off balance, and straddled him. Before he could protest, she grabbed his hands and pinned them above his head.

"Pigeon, what the hell are you—oh my _god_ …." Oswald moaned.

She impaled herself on his cock, then rode him hard, getting him back to his peak where he'd left off and her slick wetness swallowing him whole. Feverishly, her body gyrated against his; Sylvia watched his face go through all the expressions of protest, then eagerness…. then bliss.

His back arched, his toes curled, and Sylvia kept his wrists pinned down as his body went through its own seizure-like blissful orgasm. He relaxed, and she shivered when she felt his cum spill inside her.

"That was amazing."

"I thought so too." Oswald exhaled contentedly, looking up at her.

"You know, I love it when you're in charge. But it's becoming inherently obvious that deep, _deep_ inside, you love it when I'm in control. Even if it's on occasion."

"You're not wrong."

"I know I'm not. I love you Daddy Penguin."

"I love you too, Mama Pigeon."

"Mm, I like it when you call me that," Sylvia purred, smirking at him. "Turns me on so much. I might need to fuck you again."

"Someone's frisky."

"Well, it doesn't help that you're very fuckable."

"Color me flattered." Oswald chuckled, grinning broadly. "You really know how to make a man feel good about himself."

"Mm…" She leaned into him, and licked his ear, and felt him shiver against her. "It's nice having you back, sweetheart. By the way—I saved the empire for you. It's still in working condition, you know, whenever you want it back."

"You've managed to keep everything together, have you?"

"A lot easier said than done, but yes. Despite the burden, I've kept it out of the hands of people like Tabitha Galavan," Sylvia rolled her eyes as she said the woman's name. "Things would go to shit if she ran things."

" _Now_ who has control issues."

"I could care less about Gotham's Underworld and its people," Sylvia admitted apathetically.

"Then why go through all the trouble of keeping it safe?"

"I didn't do it for them." She kissed his nose. "I did it for you."

**Chapter 16: The Mole**

She wore in a navy, strapless dress, the hem falling below her heel so whenever she walked anywhere, she took a handful of the material closest to the top of her thigh and had to keep it up so as not to trip on her gown. When she had bought the dress, Sylvia was certain it would be beautiful—appropriate for the Big Night planned at the end of the month, a celebration of sorts.

And it _was_ beautiful. However, she didn't realize what a nuisance it would be to constantly pick up her dress whenever she decided to walk somewhere. She had to do it whenever she moved a few paces to the left or to the right, telling people where to stand, what to do, what to guard, and how to act.

The guards, her regulars being Chilly and Dagger, were standing like a pair of ghoulish gargoyles right beside the door. They reminded her of statues, the way they just eyed the audience, how shifty their eyes moved. Perhaps she'd ingrained their vigilance a little too well; they never knew when to relax, when to stay alert; it was a matter of job security and safety of the club; that was why Sylvia was so strict with them.

After a moment, she picked up her dress (again) and moved towards them. They glanced at her stiffly, noticing her presence and trying to look all professional for the boss.

"As you were, boys," sighed Sylvia, looking them over. "I think you can stop being bouncers tonight. No one's going to come in raiding."

"And what if they do?" Dagger proposed. "That's what they're expecting. They want us to get lazy. Get all calm and relaxed."

"You mean 'complacent'." Chilly offered the word, noticing Dagger was talking out of his ass. Trying to do his best to be the smarty-pants in front of Sylvia; he only acted vigilant when the boss was around; otherwise, Dagger was just any bruiser. Chilly might have had his gambling issues, and lord knew he still owed quite a lot of money to Sylvia, but at least he didn't talk with a foot in his mouth.

"Complacency isn't a fault as long as it doesn't disturb the work—but you're disturbing my regulars," Sylvia said, noticing that many of the patrons appeared put-off by the bouncer-like guards. "Relax, gentlemen. This is night of celebration."

"You mean we can put the safety back on our guns?" Dagger questioned.

Chilly's eyes widened to the size of UFOs as he exclaimed, " _Your safety wasn't on!_ You've been aiming that fucker at me several times now! You could have taken my fucking eye out a moment ago!"

"It's not my fault! I was tryna tell you where that fucker went—"

"—That 'fucker' was a goddamn waiter, and _you_ know that—"

"—He was acting weird!"

"BOYS!"

Chilly cleared his throat apologetically while Dagger still appeared indignant, glancing at Sylvia nervously until she held out her hands and placed each on the shoulder of her fine guardsmen.

"What did I just say, hm? _Relax_." She emphasized, patting their arms. "Look around. Do you see any threats?"

Dagger and Chilly peered around the room.

People were dressed in fancy clothes: Ballgowns, tuxedos, expensive suits, and jewelry. There was singing, dancing (some of the newer club attendees were having some Karaoke contest on the stage), a pianist was hitting it hard on the strings. On the sidelines, from where they stood, neither Dagger nor Chilly could sense any threat. As a result, they cracked a smile at their boss, and put an arm around one another with an apologetic chuckle, only offering one another a drink as they were encouraged to go to the bar.

Sylvia watched them for a moment, an amused expression crossing her features before something idled in her peripheral vision. It was a flicker of movement, something white. And although it had only been a few seconds, it hadn't escaped her. Once more, she gazed in the direction.

In the direction of her office.

Discreetly, she touched her outermost left thigh, pretending to straighten her dress. In all reality, she was minding the fact that her .44 was still sheathed in the holster strapped to her thigh over a black lacy garter. Her eyes traveled up the stairwells; minding the traffic that descended the steps, she smiled politely at her guests before proceeding further.

No need to alert anyone else of her suspicions.

Due to Tabitha and Butch's most recent exploits, her paranoia was slowly driving her into the ground. Mr. Bell and Brittany managed to keep her organized—between the club's management and the Underworld's musings—and she appeared to have it altogether. Inside, she was screaming. She was desperately hoping that Oswald would overcome whatever grief or anger he still felt towards the loss of his father and the murder of his step family, and come back to help her rule the empire—if not take it over completely.

She wanted to go back to how things were. Back when he was the King, and she was his willing subordinate. Those were easier days, for sure.

 _The door is open. Why is my office door open_?

And the action that shortly followed after her thought was an answer. She opened the door completely, slowly so as not to alert the intruder. The hinges creaked like something out of a horror movie; but by the time it did, Sylvia saw the figure dressed in a spaghetti-strapped white, knee-length cocktail dress.

"Brittany?" Her voice betrayed her surprise, seeing the young blonde snooping through the cabinets.

Or at least, she was trying to. Since the untimely event where Anderson had attempted to break into her office and grab the files on her brother and those officers, she considered family (namely Harvey Bullock), Sylvia had kept the files in a locked cabinet: under 'lock and key' indeed. She hadn't had any problems with any robberies since killing the most junior of the Anderson family: Drake. She thought the burglaries were over.

"What are you doing in here?" She asked calmly, closing the door behind her with a _click_ ; the blinds on the glass window pane shuttered with the light impact.

Hearing her name, Brittany had straightened suddenly. Caught in the act. She turned ever so slowly, looking to see her boss standing, now, in the room with her. Her face contorted into several expressions: surprise, shock, regret, guilt….and now, something indecipherable.

Brittany suddenly smiled, albeit nervously.

"I'll ask again." Sylvia said coolly. "What are you doing in my office? I didn't give you permission to enter."

"I was looking for something."

"'Looking for something'?"

"Yes…A file."

Sylvia sighed, and strode to her desk. Wordlessly, she opened a drawer, withdrew a single silver, triangular-shaped handle of a key. Just as silently, she walked towards the cabinet that Brittany had attempted to pry open with just her fingernails and opened it, withdrawing a single vanilla-colored folder from its contents.

Pointedly, Sylvia held it up, the label reading 'Detective James Gordon'.

"Is it this one, by chance?"

"Sylvia—"

" _Is it_?"

"Sylvia," Brittany flinched, holding her hands up fearfully. "I know what this must look like, but I swear…."

"You can explain," She finished flatly, throwing the file down on the surface of her desk. Sarcastically, she added, "I'm so sure you can. Have a seat, Brittany."

"Miss Sylvia….?"

"I said 'have a seat'. And don't make me repeat myself."

Brittany gulped nervously and sat in the arm chair directly across from her. Brittany's hands clutched at the hem of her white dress; her feet pinched together like she was trying to prevent the act of pissing all over herself. The blonde anxiously chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes darting between the file and Sylvia, who sat slowly in her chair.

"We're going to have a talk. I'm going to talk. You're going to listen. You will not interrupt me. You will not say a single _fucking_ word until I have finished. Am I clear? Nod, please, if you understand these terms as I have described them."

Brittany nodded slowly.

"Good. Now…." Sylvia sighed, leaning back in her chair. "What we have here is a dilemma. A conflict. A problem of great magnitude. This is not the first time I have found you in my office, snooping about; in fact, this is the second time, isn't it? I don't expect you to answer me. We both know it is."

Brittany rubbed her hands, her eyebrows knitting together uncertainly. She wasn't uncertain about the facts; there was a different emotion reflecting off her.

"The first time I found you here, Jim and I came in for a discussion. You told me you were looking for a file; you had one in your hand... _this_ one, in fact." She tapped the envelope with the middle finger of her right hand. "You told me that the reason you were getting it was because….?"

Brittany cleared her throat and said hoarsely, "Mr. Anderson wanted—"

"Ah yes, thank you," Sylvia said sarcastically. "I remember now. Mr. Anderson had demanded privy to my brother's profile. Of course, he would, and why wouldn't he? And you'd know why, wouldn't you, Brittany?"

Brittany nodded.

"How would you know?"

"I…." Brittany started. She had to start again when her throat clamped up unexpectedly, as she said dryly, "I go to the meetings."

" _Do_ you?"

"Not really, I suppose."

"You stand at the doors."

"Ma'am?"

Sylvia chuckled, opening a drawer and withdrawing a pack of cigarettes. She took one, placing the tip in her mouth while she reached into the same drawer and took out a lighter. Wordlessly, she lit the cigarette, plainly throwing the pack back into the drawer none too gently. At the rough gesture, Brittany glanced nervously at the hidden drawer then back to Sylvia's unblinking gaze.

"You," She exhaled a long sigh. "You know how much the Andersons have wanted a peek at Jim's file—who doesn't, after all—and I know that you stand just outside the double doors. I oftentimes have seen your shadow, lingering about. Outside of the room. Listening in."

"I never meant to offend you, Miss Sylvia."

"And I'm not offended. It's actually very smart."

"Ma'am?"

"Smart to eavesdrop, smart to collect information. You're a smart woman. No one's really given you enough credit, myself included." Her expression softened. "So maybe this whole thing" (She gestured to Brittany as well as the envelope and the office in general) "is partly my fault."

"What do you mean?"

"You're stealing from me," She said bluntly, looking at Brittany in the eye. "You're going behind my back."

Brittany's mind raced at ninety miles per hour: "I've not talked to anyone, Miss Sylvia. I've not been—"

"You're faithful, loyal, blah blah blah," Sylvia said flippantly, rolling her eyes. "I've heard it all before. What I don't understand is why you had to lie to me."

"Lie to you?"

"Yes. You _lied_ to me."

"When?"

" _When_? Well, I'm shocked that you don't remember."

"I don't!"

Sylvia sat back in her seat once more, looking more apathetic than ever. Inside, she was roiled with rage—the thought of someone so close to her heart getting the best of her. And she didn't even realize it until now! What an idiot she had been!

"I talked to Mr. Anderson," Sylvia said dangerously, glaring at Brittany. "I talked to him that day, asked him why on Earth he would dare try to intimidate _my_ staff in _my_ mansion, go behind _my_ back. I questioned him, interrogated him, even. Both him _and_ his son. I demanded to know why he would dare try to coerce my own people to feed him dirt, dirt on my own kin—and do you know what he told me, Brittany?"

"I don't…"

"He said he never spoke to you. Never said a _word_ to you, or _anyone_ for that matter."

"But he was lying—"

"No, _you're_ lying to me!" She snapped, smacking the desk, making Brittany jump. She stood. "You lied to me that day, and you're lying to me again!"

"Sylvia, I swear I'm not!" Brittany squeaked, raising her hands in front of her, frightened. "I swear! You can't honestly believe that I'd turn against you—not me!"

"Not you? You listened to every conversation I had with the Head of the Five Families, with Tommy Bones, with the Duke—you knew everything I did and everywhere I went. When you told me Anderson intimidated you, I believed you. I believed you, did I not!"

"Yes, you did!" She whimpered, shrinking in her seat as Sylvia rounded the desk.

"So why did he tell me that he never talked to you? Why did you _lie_ to me! And why are you lying to me now? You were in my office—twice! Twice! What's your excuse this time? Huh!"

"Drake Anderson!"

Sylvia stared at her: " _What_?"

"Drake!" Brittany cried; tears started running down her cheeks. "He made me do it! Last time….and-and this time!"

Sylvia stared at her, still. Unblinking. In such a way that the longer she did, Brittany was starting to tremble under her gaze.

"Drake Anderson? Drake Anderson told you to come into my office, to steal the file on my brother, to find any dirt or blackmail or leverage on me? _He_ told you?" Sylvia questioned, unconvinced.

Brittany nodded vigorously, "Yes! He did! I'm sorry!"

Sylvia sat on the edge of her desk.

"You know…Drake was a bad seed. A spoiled child. Cunting dick. I could believe that he'd be capable of that sort of thing, of terrible things." She touched Brittany's wet cheek. "And you, my dear, are so easily influenced, so easily manipulated…coerced to do his bidding. How terrible it must have been for you…."

Brittany was lulled into a sense of comfort.

That was until Sylvia tightened her grip on the woman's jaw and Brittany winced with pain.

"I could believe that," Sylvia hissed, "if Drake Anderson was still _alive_."

Brittany's eyes widened.

"I killed him," She whispered. "He's dead. Been dead for a few weeks now. He went behind my back for the last time—I shot him in the knee then I smashed his face with a cinder block until he was unrecognizable beyond even his father's comprehension." She shoved Brittany away from her, so hard that the woman nearly fell off her own chair. "There's no way Drake Anderson got to you before he died—or _after._ "

Brittany bit her lip and said firmly, "I swear to you, Miss Sylvia…I swear, I've…I'm not…."

She put her cigarette out in the marble ash tray on her desk, ignoring Brittany's tears and cries. Instead, she looked at her with an expression of detachment.

"You helped me run my club," Sylvia said quietly, looking at her hands with sentiment. "You were a shoulder to cry on, and you never gave me any sort of trouble. You were the last person I thought that would ever go behind my back, Brit. I could forget the fact that you tried using my own kin against me, to blackmail me or do whatever you had intended to do. What I find truly abhorrent is that you lied to me…. _to my face_. The least you could have done is told me the truth."

"Sylvia…."

"Why did you stray?" She asked, looking at her sadly. "What pushed you? And please…Please, don't lie to me. Tell me the truth."

"It's like you said," Brittany whimpered, holding up a hand in front of her as though it might deflect any sort of violence that Sylvia had locked away just for her. "It's like you said…you never gave me any credit."

"The sad part is that I know what that feels like, and I know what it looks like. I should have seen it coming, honestly. You and your ambition, your lies and manipulation. Hell, I'm married to a man who was just in the same boat as you…"

"Ma'am, I'll do anything…anything to make it up to you. Please, please…forgive me."

"I could let you live…But what would stop you from betraying me again? You were ready to use my brother—for what intentions or your purposes, I could only scarcely imagine. And you'd probably get away with that. But what would stop you from going further, hmm? Would you hurt me? Or perhaps do something worse? Would you harm my husband?"

Brittany whispered, "Please…Have mercy. Please…please, Sylvia, forgive me. Please, forgive me, I'm _begging_ you."

Sylvia leaned back, took out the Glock that was taped under her desk and then shot Brittany in the head. Blood slowly oozed from the hole; and the woman fell over as though in slow motion. Sylvia watched the chair crash to the ground, along with the dead body.

"Sorry, Darling. I really didn't want to do that, but it had to be done. Besides, we both know what would happen. You'd go after my family, probably endanger them, kill them….and I can't have that." Sylvia uttered.

She stooped down, and brushed Brittany's bloody bangs from her forehead, kissing it.

The pounding of footsteps up the stairs; following that, Dagger busted the door down. Sylvia looked up at him, disappointedly.

"I _just_ had that fucking thing replaced!" Sylvia exclaimed.

"Whoa…!" Dagger glanced at Brittany's corpse. "Uh…should I leave?"

"Nah. Take her." Sylvia said, standing. "She's ruining my carpet."

"What happened?"

"I shot her."

"I figured that. I mean, why?"

"She was the mole."

" _Her_?"

"Yeah. Admittedly, I was a little surprised too."

"Did she say why?"

"She felt underappreciated." Sylvia muttered, disgruntled. "Lord knows we've all been there. I've done my utmost best to make people feel appreciated—between dealing with Jim's shit and his imprisonment, dealing with Galavan and Butch, and the usual ramblings and complaints of the other Families, I doubt there was more that I could have done."

Her nose curled as Dagger picked Brittany up and threw her over his shoulder.

"Nothing else to that?"

"What else is there to it? She lied. I caught her. She was guilty; I killed her. Simple as that."

"Anything you wanna tell Delilah?" Dagger asked. "They were kind of close."

"If she wants to avenge her snake friend, I'll be more than happy to indulge." Sylvia quipped, sitting back at her desk. "Other than that, nothing else to tell."

"Do you need someone to take over the business?"

"Are you putting in your application?"

"No. It's just that Delilah seemed interested."

"I'll talk to her."

"Sure thing, Boss." Dagger said, nodding obediently. He carried Brittany out the door and closed it on the exit.

**Chapter 17: Release**

On the same night that Sylvia had killed Brittany, she went home. Not to the formerly one held by Falcone. But to the Van Dahl mansion, a place she knew she wouldn't have to look over her shoulder every ten minutes. Like before, the door wasn't locked, so she stepped inside, minding her surroundings.

Grace was still face-planted in the tray. Flies buzzed around and landed on her, their little insect-like hands rubbing together as though they were congratulating from one fly to another on the feast before them.

The candles on the table were lit, the wax dripping onto the wood itself. Aside from the roaring fireplace, the candlelight, and the sliver of moonlight creeping through the curtains, the mansion was otherwise dark. It was a little musty inside, but the dead body in the dining room was likely the source.

" _Oswald!"_

She looked around for him.

He was likely lurking in the shadows, waiting to see who had come into the mansion without precedence. She hadn't made it obvious that she was coming by; he wasn't expecting her until tomorrow, but after Brittany's betrayal, she just wanted to see a friendly face.

She removed the fresh wax from the dining table after retrieving a knee-high garbage can from the kitchen, wiping the remnants of the candles into it. After that, she proceeded to do a little bit of a clean-up, taking the dishes from the dining room and piling them into the sink; after starting the pipes, Sylvia was relieved to know that there was running water.

Oswald wasn't rummaging around in his own filth, at least. Now, _that_ was something to be relieved about! Grace's dead body was slowly decaying, and the decomposition and its odor was nauseating; Grace was that healthy dose of reality, the kind that Oswald needed in order to come to terms with the fact that this new family of his had been just as decrepit as Sylvia had tried to get him to believe.

But there needed to be a time when Grace could leave the mansion, and go somewhere else to decay, surely!

Sylvia continued to clean, gathering the supplies from underneath the sink: an array of cleaning utensils to include a scrub brush, mop head, bleach, (Gonna need lots and lots of bleach, she thought), Windex….the cabinet was a janitor's fantastical dream!

An hour went by, and the mansion had the fragrance of ammonia and bleach, while still maintaining the smell of a dead person. An interesting combination—not one that Sylvia would recommend for remodeling a mansion back to its original antiquity…but it was a lot better than its predecessor.

The floors were shiny if they were tile, and free from lint or blood, if it was carpet.

Now all that was left was Grace.

"What do you with you, Madame," She mumbled as she poked Grace's shoulder. "You're an eye-sore, you know that?" Sylvia took the woman by the hair of her bun and, like a puppeteer, Sylvia made Grace nod her head. "Yes, you know that. At least we finally found something we can agree on."

Chuckling at the macabre marionette, Sylvia rolled her eyes and let Grace's head fall back on the platter. At the intrusion, the flies suddenly flew away but once the disturbance had mitigated, they swarmed back to their original positions.

"I need to get rid of this thing."

She moved to the kitchen, and proceeded to wash the dishes. The running water was the only sound she heard, and somehow, that was enough to calm her mind. In this mansion, she needn't worry of the club's finances; her brother's incarceration; the management role that she was insistent to keep but would otherwise have thrown away in a minute after realizing the magnitude of the stress it would impact on her.

Selfishly, she'd come to the mansion, hoping that she could convince Oz to come back to work, to get his life back where Hugo Strange had nearly thrown it away. And another part of her desired to be with him. That part, Sylvia was certain had brought her to him a day earlier.

The shuffling of his familiar footsteps prompted her to glance over her shoulder to see Oswald walking into the kitchen, watching her with a surprised expression. It was clearly written on his face that he'd realized she was here after moving through the dining and living rooms, noticing how clean they'd become in his absence.

Seeing her, Oswald smiled.

"You're a day early."

"I'd have called."

"Why didn't you?"

Sylvia shrugged, responding with the gesture alone.

Wordlessly, Oswald moved closer to her, wrapping his arms around her, his fingers interlacing together over her belly button. His soft exhale of contentment tickled the hairs on the back of her neck, and Sylvia shuddered with an inward delight when he kissed the skin beneath her left earlobe.

"Are you feeling all right, dear?"

"I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You're tense."

"Has it not crossed your brilliant mind, yet, that _you_ cause that tension?" Sylvia questioned coyly, turning her head just a few centimeters so her eyes met his.

"I may have caused a little," Oswald returned, a small sly little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "but I'm not the reason for it up here." He lifted one hand from her stomach in favor of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair to massage her scalp. "Or here…." He kissed her neck once more, and she stifled a moan.

Sylvia continued washing dishes, subconsciously soaking the china-made plates but her mind was starting to wander.

His hands returned back to the front of her stomach; the side of his thumbs lifted to stroke her rib cage.

"You're distracted."

"Yeah…Well, I just…"

He kissed her cheek.

"Things have happened," She admitted. "Not all of it has been life-threatening, but it's becoming a lot more than I can handle. To be perfectly honest, I feel like I'm losing control of the situation."

His languid movements of turning her on trailed away, once he sensed there was more to her visit than the underlying sexual frustration that both of them felt while they were separated. In distance, only, really. His hands moved past her, taking hers away from the dishes, prompting her to turn around. Slowly, she did, noticing just how close he was to her when their lips touched briefly in a tender kiss.

Whether that had been intentional or the other, Sylvia didn't care. It made her smile.

Oswald looked in a better state than when she had left him. His hair was in its normal do, his clothes were back to its usual flair, and he wasn't covered in blood anymore. The concern alight in his eyes was stronger, seeing that Sylvia's spark was flickering in the midst of all that had happened.

"Come with me."

She followed him into the living room where he gestured for her to sit down on the couch. She did and he joined her shortly after. She snuggled closer to him; when she did, Oswald's smile returned.

"Tell me what happened."

"I killed Brittany."

He looked a little surprised by Sylvia's blunt honesty, but he asked lightly, "Why?"

"She went behind my back. Tried to use my brother as leverage."

"That's not the first person to do that."

"And it won't be the last, I know. But she's the last person I thought that would do it. And who's to say that she would have stopped there? She'd have gone further, probably. And use you. I couldn't have that." She explained, her voice darkening as she did. "I shot her in the head; Dagger's burying her right now, actually."

"You killed her today?"

"Yes."

"Is that why you came a day early?"

"It's not just that," Sylvia told him, sitting up and away from him. At the sudden break of intimacy, Oswald looked at her, taken aback. She put her hand on his thigh, squeezing gently.

"I need you to come back. I've held up my part for as long as I can. I can manage things for a while, sure, but I _need_ you to come back."

"No one has helped you?"

"Everyone has helped me," She said dismissively. "My people—aside from Brittany, of course—have done everything they can to run things smoother for me, but they're not _you_ , Oz. I can't keep running things by myself, you know. I wasn't meant to do it by myself—and I…I'm just so _tired_ all the fucking time. I can't sleep, and I'm falling apart."

The desperation in her eyes, her voice cracking as she spilled all of her inner workings to him. Oswald didn't realize just how much she needed him…sure, he had an idea…but this was a little more than what he'd been prepared to handle. He pulled her to him so he cradled her head against his chest, not unlike how he'd comforted his mother when Maroni had poured all of his dark secrets onto the table.

Sylvia didn't cry. Not this time. But she was on the brink of it.

"Don't worry, Pigeon." Oswald whispered. "Shhh…."

She nuzzled his neck; her soft whimpers muffled against his skin, "I thought I could do it alone, but I can't…."

"Shhhh…." He hushed her in a soft, comforting voice.

Sylvia's arms wrapped around his middle, getting closer to him.

For a while, no one spoke.

Seeing her in such distress, Oswald was certain that if he didn't step in, she'd likely break apart in front of him. As much as he had enjoyed the time away from the managerial position, it was time he was pulled back into the swing of things. With his father's death, and the murders he committed, Oswald reckoned he'd basked enough time in grief and vengeance. He could dismiss pleas and cries from people, pretend they weren't human beings and just go on with business like the norm, but Sylvia was different.

Seeing her cry, listening to her desperate pleas—Oswald couldn't ignore that. And he wouldn't.

"Is Brittany the only one?" He asked lightly.

Sylvia lifted her head to meet his gaze.

"Only one what?"

"Was she only the traitor?"

"I was sure that there was only one mole."

"If there's one, there's always another. Who was she working for?"

"She was an entrepreneur. I don't think she was in it for anyone else but herself."

"Are you certain of that?"

"Well, she's dead, Oz. I sure hope that I was certain. Unless you have an ability to communicate with the dead that I don't know about, there's no way of asking Brittany anything else."

"Perhaps she was working with Miss Galavan and Butch…." Oswald brainstormed quietly.

"I doubt it. They wouldn't give her the time of day."

"Not in the open, anyway."

"Not at _all_ , Oz. She was ditsy. Tabitha wouldn't look twice at her. Butch wouldn't either."

"You sound confident about that."

"That's because I am."

Oswald smiled as she sat up, but didn't break their intimacy. In fact, she had sobered up from falling to pieces in his arms and lifted a leg over his lap so she straddled him.

"And, how _are_ they?" Oswald questioned, looking up at her. "Have they behaved?"

"Like children, they've acted out, but no more than usual." Sylvia informed, smirking at him. "Sometimes, all children need is a little discipline. A gun here, a threat there…." She nipped Oswald's chin with a small nibble, adding, "And a little spanking from time to time."

"I can't tell if you're being serious or you're using a double entendre," He admitted, but smiling up at her, regardless.

"I'm speaking metaphorically. Well, the spankings are metaphors, but I _did_ threaten them with a gun."

"You have an impressive way of dealing with the rabble."

"I learned from the best."

"Mmm. Learned a few things, have you?"

"I've learned a lot more from you than you could possibly imagine." Sylvia reassured. "After all, you've been an excellent mentor."

"Is that why you married me?"

"Well, that, and your brilliant mind."

"Flattery will get you places."

"Flattery has gotten you _in_ some places," Sylvia reminded, smirking at him. She wiggled her bottom on his lap, adding, "I could think of one I'd like you to revisit."

"Now I know _that_ is not a metaphor."

What had become a visit for consolation and venting soon become one of cashing in nights of sexual frustration. Breathless and satisfied, a naked Sylvia lied on top of Oswald, who mirrored her in the same lack of attire. Distractedly, she traced invisible, geometrically distorted images on his chest with her index finger while Oswald held her in his arms, content as ever.

"You are a very impressive woman, Pigeon."

He spoke so suddenly, his voice was hoarse, but soft-spoken.

Sylvia glanced up at him.

"Well, I tried a few new things; I'm so glad you approved."

Oswald's eyebrows raised in surprise, and realizing her meaning, he laughed quietly, "I wasn't talking about the sex…but it was amazing as always. Where did you learn those...?"

"Darling," Sylvia sighed, smirking up at him. "While you've been gone, I've had to entertain myself in more ways than one. It's amazing what you can learn just by watching porn. And in the mansion, there's such great picture and clarity—comes out clear as a bell!"

Oswald blushed: "You've been watching—"

"Porn, yes." She kissed his neck. "But nothing is like the real thing, baby."

At her praise, Oswald's whole body seemed to turn a shade a pink, bringing out the adorable freckles on his face and shoulders. As fun as it was seeing him get all flustered by hearing her words of approval, Sylvia attempted to allow his modesty to subside and she moved the topic to something else.

"You said I'm an impressive woman?" She encouraged.

"Yes." He looked at her plainly. "You've done a lot more for me than I could have ever expected."

"Cleaning the mansion wasn't that hard."

"I'm not talking about that."

"Running an empire alone, you mean?"

"In my defense—"

"Oz, you don't have to apologize. Strange messed with your mind. And I know it wasn't you that broke up with me. So, you don't have to keep saying you're sorry."

"I _know_ that. But that doesn't keep me from feeling the way that I do."

"And what way is that?"

"Guilty."

Sylvia blinked, and she sat up. He did too, following her mannerism, although he appeared disheartened by her reaction.

"Guilt is normal," Sylvia reassured. "But I've forgiven you multiple times. I've told you…."

"Yes, you've told me." He emphasized. "But my behavior was inexcusable."

"Can we talk about this—"

"I don't want to talk about it another time."

"I'm not disagreeing about the timing." Sylvia said firmly. "But if you don't mind, I'd rather discuss serious matters such as this while wearing clothes."

"Oh…." He glanced down at himself to realize that he was still naked. "You…yes, you make a fair point."

After he and Sylvia were dressed, Sylvia sashed her robe and looked at him plainly. They stood in the living room. Good of a place as any to discuss current emotions.

"Why do you feel guilty?" She asked.

"How could I not?"

"Well, that's why I'm asking."

Oswald gave her a look.

"What I said to you, how I treated you after being released from Arkham...that has stayed with me. After all I had done, I couldn't bring myself to look past all your faults—"

"—You mean, the fact that I murdered people—"

"—Yes, Pigeon, _that_."

"Strange _brainwashed_ you."

"That's not an excuse. I was pretending that I had moved on, that I was no longer the man I am now. I couldn't see that side of you. I was…." Oswald paused, like speaking the words themselves was causing him a greater physical pain. "I was intolerant, and…I still can't believe what I was ready to throw away just on the principle."

He looked as though he might throw himself into the fireplace. Sylvia noticed how greatly this was affecting him; she took his hands and Oswald looked at her.

How the tables had turned in a day. She'd come to him in hopes that he would take control of the situation, to relieve her of all her stress and worries from the past few months, of all the trepidation she had encountered. And now, here he was—wanting her to do the same. Sylvia caressed his face between her palms, watching his eyes flicker and search her eyes.

"You love me, don't you?"

"Of _course,_ I do."

"And, as you stand, do you care that I've murdered people? Do you care that I have killed people both for myself as well as for you?"

"I don't care that you have."

"And despite knowing all that I have done to get this far, do you still love me?"

Oswald said quietly, "I'm more in love with you now than I have ever been."

""Then that's all that matters."

"But, Pigeon, look what could have happened if I never broke away from that curse!" He insisted, taking her hands and moving them from his face. "Look what needed to happen in order for me to see reason!"

"If Grace killing your dad didn't wake you up from your delusion, then I'd have found a way."

"You would have?"

"I would have," She reaffirmed. "I _know_ you, Oswald. I know what you've done, what you're doing, and what you're capable of. I know you better than anyone else in this entire world, and that includes your parents. If you think for a second that I'd have let you stay under Strange's hold, then you don't know me from atom."

Oswald nodded, seeing the truth before him.

" _You_ didn't break up with me." Sylvia said softly. " _You_ love me, no matter what I have done in the past. If our roles were reversed, and Strange had me under that same goddamn brainwashing delusion, I'm sure you'd have found a way to wake me up too."

" _Without_ hesitation." Oswald reassured. Just the idea of Strange even touching Sylvia brought out the possessive edge in his tone.

Sylvia leaned into him, kissing his bottom lip; his eyes closed, treasuring that tender kiss. When it naturally broke, he smiled at her.

"No more guilt." She whispered. "No more thoughts of 'what if'. You love me. I love you. And that's all there is to it."

"Well, that's not all."

"Pardon?"

"Give me a few days. I'll hire Olga back…."

"Who?"

"The maid."

"Oh."

"And once this place is back to normal—well, as normal as it can be—I'll come back," Oswald promised, taking Sylvia's hands in his. "You won't have to run the empire alone anymore."

She smiled at him: "Did Olga work for Grace?"

"Yes."

"Did she like her?"

"Not at all."

"Good," Sylvia returned. "Then Olga and I will get along swimmingly. Don't take long, baby." She kissed Oswald again. "If I have to keep meeting with the Heads of the Five Families, I'm gonna scream. There's nothing worse than hearing a bunch of old guys whining and starting every fucking conversation with 'back in my day'…it's unnerving."

"Now you know how _I_ feel." Oswald said, rolling his eyes.

Knowing that she wouldn't have to keep a level head on her shoulders for much longer was a godsend. She'd exercised a great deal of control: not shooting every son-of-a-bitch who'd tried to contest her authority (Tabitha and Butch); giving people ample opportunity of prove themselves capable of handling a few tasks without much supervision (Dagger and Chilly); and even giving people a benefit of doubt, despite the fact that she'd ended up killing them either way (Drake Anderson, Brittany).

Sylvia missed the days when she could arbitrarily offer to kill someone just because she was in the mood, to torture anyone for information that Oswald wanted and then get the 'good girl' treatment and praise she deserved. Instead, all this time, she had to act like that goddamn parent, setting that prime example of good leadership.

Not that it didn't have its perks. Since her acting the role of queen, many of Oswald's men as well as her own had declared their undying loyalty, even the Heads of the Five Families (to include the Maronis and Belichs) had shown their gratitude for her informality. Whereas Oswald owned that separation of the classes, preferring professionalism over casual banter, Sylvia operated a little easily when things were just informal.

Even then, people were holding doors open for her, making sure that she was happy. Even if she wasn't in the best mood, there was an unspoken respect.

Floating on good luck, Sylvia decided to make a trip to the prison. She'd talk to her brother, have a nice laugh—who knows, maybe his being in prison had given him a new perspective as to why she behaved the way she did.

She'd never been to Black Gate. But she _had_ been in a few prisons where things weren't always black and white. You had to join a gang, and threaten other gangs, to prove yourself in any case you wanted to sleep another night and not wake up with a shank to your throat. It was why she was so aggressive in the beginning, but now, there was no excuse for her personality quirks other than the fact that Sylvia loved a good fight.

So did Jim.

"My name is Sylvia Cobblepot. I'm here to see my brother, James Gordon."

She spoke to an entry man; he was a correctional officer, dressed in that garb that read 'I know my shit, don't mess with me'. Badges adorned his uniform, and his rank was higher than any of that Sylvia had seen. She'd figured he knew better than anyone who her brother was. No doubt, he might have started a few fights of his own, just to get his point across that he wasn't messing around.

Then again, learning that his unborn child had been miscarried might have put a different fire in his belly. To her knowledge, Sylvia was certain he had found out. News like that never went unspoken. Perhaps Harvey Bullock had made a visit to him, told him what Sylvia didn't have the heart to tell him.

"James Gordon isn't here anymore." The guardsman said sternly.

Sylvia cocked her head to the side and said with a politely forced tone, "Excuse me?"

"I said—"

"I _know_ what you said," Sylvia said harshly, glaring at him. "What the hell do you mean he's not here anymore. Of course, he's here. He was sentenced here. He's _been_ here. You're telling me he's not?"

"You're talking about Detective James Gordon." He wanted to clarify.

"Yes."

"The man escaped."

"Excuse me?"

"He ran away."

"I know what 'escaped' means," Sylvia retorted hotly. "What the hell do you mean he 'escaped'? He's not here?"

"That's what I said, ma'am. He's not here."

"So, where the fuck is he?"

"We don't know."

"You don't know?" Sylvia repeated, unconvinced. "You don't know where your own man is?"

"I'm sorry if you had to hear it from me, but he _isn't_ here. He escaped." The guard explained; the man was attempting to keep his voice fairly calm and polite, but clearly unable to hide his irritation.

"And you have no idea where he might have gone?"

"Can't say I do."

"Are you going to try and find him?"

"Doubtful."

"Why is that?"

"He's not a prisoner anymore."

"I know he's not, you moron. You just told me that he escaped."

"He's not in _our_ custody anymore, woman," snapped the guard, glaring at her. "He's not a prisoner. Not anymore. He escaped, but his charges were fucking _dropped_."

Sylvia crossed her arms: "Well, excuse _me_ for not understanding. If your explanation skills were as good as your mannerisms are terrible, I'm sure I'd have understood the first time. Why were they dropped?"

"We don't know," said the guard, thumbing behind him to the men around him. "We were told to stop pursuing the matter. So we stopped."

"And you didn't bother finding out why?"

"Woman, we don't care about 'why'. There are plenty other prisoners we gotta babysit and your goddamn brother is the last of my priorities. The man was a troublemaker; then again, I can't really say I blame the guy—the warden was after him."

"The warden?"

"He had it in for him."

"Why?"

"Goddamn, woman, you ask a lot of questions. Just be happy your brother is a free man."

"Do you know where he's staying?"

"No. And I don't care to know."

Sylvia rolled her eyes and said sarcastically, "Thank you for your cooperation. You've been _very_ helpful." She walked away, muttering, "Putz."

Her first stop would be Harvey Bullock's place. Whether Jim escaped or was released or had his charges dropped—let's be honest, Sylvia couldn't understand how any of those things could have happened or when they did—Harvey would know where Jim was. As tight knit as they were like brothers, Harvey Bullock would know the truth.

**Chapter 18: Catching Up**

"Harvey!" Sylvia shouted, rapping on the detective's door. "HARVEY BULLOCK!"

Aside from herself, there was no one else in the hallway. Perhaps that was for the best.

"HARVEY!" She continued to bellow. "HARVEY! OPEN THE DOOR! I have to talk to y—"

The door flew open.

Jim, dressed in black sweats with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, stared at her incredulously from behind the threshold.

"Vee!" He said sternly. "What the hell are you doing!"

"J-Jim…." Sylvia gasped, dropping her purse on the floor. She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his middle and pulling him into a strong, bear hug. "Oh my god, it's true!"

"Vee…." Jim managed through the strangled voice. "Vee…you're…I can't… _breathe_!"

"Oh, fuck, sorry!"

Once she let him go, Jim scrambled to the door frame, pulling himself back to his full height as he placed a hand over his stomach where she'd hugged him as tight as a python. Relieved to see that she was in higher spirits, Jim encouraged her to come in quickly; she picked up her purse, did as he asked; after, he closed the door.

"The guard said you escaped."

Sylvia dropped her purse on the nearest end table, looking at him.

"That was true."

"And that the charges were dropped?"

"Also, true."

"How did they find out it wasn't you?" Sylvia asked, staring at him with an unsettled shock. "The evidence—Galavan and Pinkney's deaths—I thought…." She gesticulated her disbelief. "Jim, how did you get out of the prison, how did you….why didn't you tell me when….where have you been all this time? Have you been here? Why…."

Jim chuckled, "I've never seen you so speechless."

"I'm just shocked, but in a good way."

"Well, a first for everything."

Sylvia sat on the edge of the love seat provided in Harvey's apartment.

"I'm sorry, I just can't believe it. I mean, you never came to me, or said anything or…."

"I had to get my life back before I dragged you into it again." Jim explained, sitting beside her. "It wasn't easy."

"I figured it wasn't. How'd you get out?"

"Well, you won't believe me."

"I've been through a lot of crap. Try me."

"Falcone."

" _Falcone_? What about Falcone?"

"Harvey went to Falcone, and together, they created a way for me to escape. After, I went digging."

"Falcone helped you? Good man, I'd say. I should write him a thank-you letter. You went digging—I wouldn't expect anything less from you. To find out who framed you, yes. I figured you would. What did you find out?"

"It was Edward Nygma."

Sylvia blinked. Then she stared. And her eyes narrowed.

" _The_ Ed Nygma?"

"Yes."

"Forensics Guy Edward Nygma."

"Yes, Vee."

" _He_ framed you?"

"Yes."

"And…Wow, I…" Sylvia stuttered and she slowly stood, while Jim held out his hands cautiously. "Pinkney's death—"

"Yes."

"—That anonymous tip to Internal Affairs—"

"—That was him too—"

Sylvia blinked several times.

"All of that was him?"

"Yes—Vee, I know what this must feel like," Jim warned. "But you can't do anything right now."

Sylvia stared at him before she spoke dangerously, "I _trusted_ him, Jim. I trusted him—he was my friend—and he _frames_ you for a crime **I** committed!" She kicked the loveseat. "THIS IS UNFUCKING BELIEVABLE!"

"Sylvia, calm down—I know that look—"

"I'M GOING TO KILL HIM!" She started towards the door, but Jim beat her to it, standing in her way. "GET OUT OF MY WAY, JIM!"

"Will you stop for a second!" Jim growled, grabbing his sister's shoulders and pushing her away from the door. "You're angry—"

"I'm passed 'angry', Jim, I'm fucking pissed! He lied _to my face_ , and said he didn't know who could have possibly done this to you, who was _responsible_ for ruining your life…."

"My life isn't ruined."

"Well, it's not been a picnic since you were arrested, _has_ it?"

"I understand why you're angry—better than anyone."

"Oh, do you?"

"Yes. But you can't kill him," Jim said carefully. "Even if you wanted to."

"You'd stop me?"

"Well, yes, but there's more to it. He's in Arkham."

Sylvia's anger extinguished.

"No kidding?"

"No kidding. With framing me," Jim explained, "and Kristen's body, Officer Dougherty, all of them, he was declared insane and he's been in Arkham ever since."

She looked at him strangely.

"I suppose that's good."

"It's enough. What matters now is that I'm a free man."

Sylvia allowed herself to mirror the same small smile, although her glee sobered as she asked, "Did you find Lee?"

"I called her. Barnes gave me her number."

"And?"

"I couldn't." Jim admitted.

"Why?"

"Well…you know about the baby?"

"I do….and I'm sorry I didn't tell you." Sylvia apologized as Jim sat next to her. "You know why I couldn't."

"I do, and it's okay. Harvey told me."

"I'm sorry, Jimmy."

"It's probably for the best, to be honest," He conceded, albeit sadly. "Prison life…Not the best for rearing a child."

"Still, maybe you and Lee can patch things up. Now that you're out."

"Not likely."

"Why?"

"I called her."

"And?"

"And nothing," Jim said, looking at her sadly. "After everything I put her through, I couldn't do it. I can't talk to her. I told her to move on. I told her to forget me. How can she do those things if I just call her up, randomly in the middle of the night, and tell her that I've been freed?"

"She'd probably be happy." Sylvia said, patting his wrist. "She'd be happy. She loves you."

"Maybe. But it'll have to wait."

"Why?"

"I made a promise."

"Oh god, you and your promises," Sylvia sighed, standing. She turned to him. "What promise did you make and to whom?"

"The same one that I made a long time ago."

"To the Wayne kid?"

"Yes."

"That case was closed."

"The murderer is still out there."

"And the case is _still_ closed," Sylvia reminded sternly. "You can't find him if the case is closed. You're a cop."

"Not officially."

"What do you mean by that? You're not going back?"

"Barnes offered me my job back. I said 'no'."

"You said 'no'?" scoffed Sylvia. "I have a hard time believing that."

"Well, believe it, Vee. Because as long as I wear the badge, I can't do things my way."

"And what exactly is 'your' way? Your way has always been the cop way."

Jim shrugged and chuckled, "So it's not my way. I guess I'll be doing things _your_ way."

Sylvia lifted her head a little and said coyly, "Don't tell me you've started leaning towards my line of work."

"Not at all. Malone was working for someone—"

"—Who—"

"—Matches Malone."

"Who uses a name like 'Matches'? Was he a fire bug?"

"He killed the Waynes."

"So, I'm guess that's a 'no' since the Waynes were shot in an alley. And, you _know_ who the murderer is," Sylvia said, gesturing to him. "Good job, done deal. So if you know who the prick was that basically wreaked havoc on Gotham, what promise is there left to keep?"

"He killed the Waynes, but he isn't the one responsible."

"He held the gun."

"Right."

"So that makes him responsible."

"He isn't the one that gave the order."

"So him and the person that did give the order are _both_ responsible. The one that took Bruce's parents away from him is the most responsible. Isn't that who you swore to find?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He's dead."

"See, that's reassuring." Sylvia, rolling her eyes. "Ergo, my question still stands. What promise is there left for you to make?"

"I don't just want the person that murdered the Waynes. I want to know why he did it."

"Are you sure this is about keeping a promise to a billionaire, or is this is your way of not confronting Lee about how you really fucking feel? Because I'm getting a feeling it's the last one."

"No. I want to know why he did what he did."

"That seems like an in-your-face kind of irony, don't you think?"

"What do you mean?"

"The person that gave the order hired him, paid him. That's why Malone killed them." Sylvia said carelessly, walking to the refrigerator in the kitchen section as she opened the door lazily. "Simple as that, Jim. Just because some assassin pricks your conscience and do-right diligence doesn't mean the rest of the world wants you to be their savior. Does Harvey _live_ on beer? That's all he has in here."

Jim sighed irritably and walked to the kitchen, closing the refrigerator to divert Sylvia's attention back to him, saying, "It's not that simple."

"It never is with you, is it?" Sylvia said, glancing at Jim then opening the door once more to observe the contents within the fridge (or rather, lack of.).

"Someone _hired_ Malone. Someone wanted to kill the Waynes. I want to know who. I want to know why."

"The Waynes were a symbol of hope and prosperity. They were also two stupid motherfuckers who walked out in an alley in the middle of the night decked out in fancy suits and dresses and neither of them bothered to carry a fucking gun." Sylvia said pointedly, earning a stern look from her brother. "Between Matches Malone who got paid to take them out, the person who gave the order getting off on someone killing two billionaires in an alley, and the aforementioned billionaire parents' ignorance for placing themselves in a fucked up situation to begin with, I really have a hard time deciding who is more at fault. The only victim I see is Bruce Wayne, who didn't know any fucking better."

"I need to know." Jim said exasperatedly.

"You'd have more resources if you joined the GCPD."

"Then I would have Barnes looking over my shoulder."

" _Someone_ needs to keep you out of trouble," Sylvia teased.

"I'd have more resources if you joined me on this."

She closed the refrigerator door.

"Impossible."

"Why is it impossible?" Jim asked, confused.

"You want _me_ to come with you on this quest to find out who ordered the Waynes to be killed," Sylvia said lightly. "That requires a lot of work. Particularly on _my_ end."

"I'd do most of the work…."

"Well, that's easy for you to say right now. You're unemployed. I, on the other hand, have a city to run and people to keep in line."

"You're telling me 'no'," said Jim unhappily, his eager smile falling to the way side.

"Not really. But in the time span that you've been gone, I've had to do things differently."

"What's different between then and the present?"

"For one: I have rules I've gotta keep."

"Oh, come on. You have rules?" Jim snickered. "That's nothing like you."

"I've had to change my way of doing things since Oswald was committed," Sylvia said darkly. "I've had to develop a new managerial style—and, by the way, it has helped me deal with a few belligerent grievances. You want to go interrogate every Harry, Dick, and Moe that has set himself against you, but I still have an empire to run. Until Oswald comes back, I have to maintain _some_ type of control; going on a man-hunt with you will impede on my progress."

"So, in essence," Jim said dryly, "You're asking 'what's in it for you'. That's what you're telling me?"

"'In essence'," Sylvia quoted smartly, "Yes, I am."

Jim leaned against the fridge, saying carefully, "What the hell happened to you while I was away?"

"I've had plenty to deal with."

"A few rough characters?"

"If you only knew," She said nonchalantly, searching through the cabinets above the sink. "Oh look, he has cereal."

She took down a box of Frosted Shredded Wheat and a bowl. Wordlessly, Jim reached into the fridge and pulled out a gallon of milk, setting it on the counter beside her.

"Thanks."

"Check the expiration date on that before you drink any of it," Jim warned.

Sylvia glanced at the date and then smiled, "Still good for another two weeks."

Jim rolled his eyes at her playful attitude. As she poured herself a bowl, she offered him some. He declined. Sylvia hoisted herself on the counter, dug her hand into the drawer nearest to her feet and found a silver spoon, using it to eat her cereal.

"What did you mean by that?" Jim asked.

"Mean, by what?"

"You said you 'had plenty to deal with'."

"Nothing big. Simple things, you know, such as nearly reaching financial ruin, betrayal, that sort of thing."

Jim knitted his eyebrows together with concern: "Betrayal?"

"I found Brittany in my office again. Unattended." Sylvia specified. "She was going behind my back, forming alliances—I caught her trying to get that file on you again."

"What did you do?"

"Well, after a calm interrogation, I shot her in the head."

"Jesus, Vee!"

"That was last night," Sylvia said dismissively. "I found out from a guard that _you_ were let out, and from you, I find out that _Ed_ has betrayed me as well. Like I said: 'betrayal, that sort of thing'."

"Forget the fact that you just confessed to murder—"

"—You're not a cop, remember?"

"Regardless…Ed framed _me_."

"You're my brother," Sylvia said pointedly. "What he's done to you, he might as well have done to me too. I take it as personal offense that he did all that to you and still pretended to be my friend, comforting me at all hours of the day, telling me that the man who framed you will surely be found. He lied to my goddamn face, and I didn't fucking see it." She cringed. "I might just be losing my touch."

Jim said calmly, "I didn't know it was him either, not at first. I wouldn't feel too bent out of shape about it."

"You can make light of it all you want. _I_ still have every intention of confronting him about it."

She put another spoonful of cereal in her mouth and smiled suddenly: "This shredded wheat is really hitting the spot."

"You won't reconsider?" Jim offered. "I'd like to have a dependable person on my side."

" _Harvey's_ dependable, right?"

" _He's_ part of the GCPD."

"Which makes him unreliable, then?"

"That's what you've been saying about the police in Gotham."

"And you're seeing that I am right after all these years."

"I can't operate without people telling me where the lines are and whether or not I'll be crossing them."

"Mmm, now you're starting to sound like me," Sylvia chuckled, winking at him. "Who're you trying to find anyway, if not Malone?"

"Someone higher than him."

"What I mean is do you have any leads—I'm not going on a wild goose chase, you know."

Jim quirked an eyebrow, saying, "So, you _are_ thinking of helping me?"

"If you know where to go and where to start, I'm listening. If you're going on a wild goose chase, I'm not game. I don't like geese."

"Just penguins?"

Sylvia smirked, "All day, every day."

Jim winced when his tease backfired on him.

"If you have some idea of where to start, I can likely lend a hand," She said seriously. "I may not be able to step away from my desk all the time, but contrary to what I may stand for, I _do_ feel pity for the little Wayne boy. A kid like that sees his parents shot dead in front of him? There's no justification for that kind of mess. Not even in _my_ eyes."

Jim walked over to the cabinet and from inside a cookie jar, he withdrew a picture, a mug shot. He held it out to Sylvia, who took it and gave it a once over.

"Who the fuck is this bitch?" Sylvia asked with a mouthful of cereal.

"They call her 'The Lady'."

"Mmm. She doesn't look impressive."

"It's not the same as being called 'The Lark' on the streets," Jim said skeptically, "but that's her."

"Who the fuck is the Lark?"

"For someone who has every resource available to her, you don't listen to the word on the street, do you?"

"Stop fucking with me. Who's the Lark?"

Jim gestured to her: "You are."

"The fuck I am."

"Well, to put it in your words: You fucking are."

"What the hell is a lark?"

"Singer, dancer…some type of bird. How the hell am I supposed to know? That's what they call you on the streets. You're 'The Lark', _Penguin's_ songbird, to be more specific."

Sylvia rolled her eyes: "I love how they come up with these nicknames and _I_ am the last to know about it. Is it supposed to be offensive or something?"

"Well, it can't be worse than being called a 'penguin'." Jim muttered, putting the picture of 'The Lady' on the counter.

"So you want to get this lady, what's your plan for when you find her?" Sylvia asked, ignoring his comment.

"Put a gun to her throat and make her tell me who's behind the Wayne murders."

"Simple, sweet, to the point. That sounds more like your speed."

"It's basically all that I have."

"And what if she doesn't talk?"

"Oh, she _will_ talk." Jim said with a dangerous glint in his eye.

Sylvia placed her empty bowl in the sink, hopped off the counter, and smiled happily at him.

"See, hearing that tone of yours, I'm almost starting to like this side of you." Sylvia joked. "But this is child's play. Aside from putting a hit on the Waynes, what else has this woman done?"

"She killed a boy's parents. That's not enough?"

" _I_ have killed people's parents," Sylvia responded dryly.

"Vee…"

"I know, I know—more murder. What can you do?"

"Whose parents did you kill?"

"Well, they weren't billionaires, so the odds of them hiring a rambunctious detective-turned-bounty-hunter is pretty unlikely. I've also killed someone's fiancé; you want to slam me for that one too?"

"He was abusive, and the fiancé’s bride-to-be _liked_ you for it. That's not the same thing."

Sylvia looked taken aback; Jim noticed it.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"That's the first time you've ever excused me from killing someone."

"Well, I talked to Tiffany Rubberdale," Jim said lightly, crossing his arms.

"Because of the Red Hood Gang giving her that fender bender and putting her in the hospital."

"Yeah."

"Oh…and what did she have to say?"

"She told me enough." Jim said coolly.

"Well, for what it's worth, I think it's sweet that you agree with me, but if you knew how the man died, you'd probably be less accepting. I can tell you how Burke Drifas died, but it ain't pretty."

"I don't want to know."

"Probably for the best."

"As for The Lady…"

"Like I said: 'child's play'," Sylvia continued as though she hadn't been interrupted. "If you want me to go hunt down a fart in the wind just because she paid a guy to kill people, I'll need more to go on. I have a club to run, and a _lot_ of people to keep under control. A distraction like this will keep me occupied, and if it's just a bitch doing what-have-you to only god-knows-who, I need more of an incentive."

Jim curled his upper lip.

"Is this what it's like to do business with you?"

"Not really. If you weren't my brother, I'd tell you to fuck off and that'd be the end of discussion." Sylvia replied honestly. "Any lackey that came to me with your sort of proposal would have been less than deserving of my time."

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"Not at all. It has saved me a great deal of time, energy, and effort. Plus, this woman loves her time and energy; I can put my effort into something else like romancing my husband. So, what else you got, Slim-Jim?"

"I thought you said you pitied Bruce Wayne."

"I do. But the time I'll invest in this woman-hunt, and the resources I'll pull from my ports can't be paid in pity."

"You're a tough negotiator."

"That, I am. So, what else do you got?"

"She's the same person that put a hit out on me." Jim informed. "Her A team came after me."

"Is she the same person that made that cannibal come after you?"

"The same person."

"What a fucking cunt," Sylvia uttered, making Jim startle. "You know what…." She wiped her hands on a hand towel. "Fuck it. Let's see what we can find. It's been a long time since I had any fun. I say 'let's do it'. We'll get the brother-sister team back on line, huh?"

"We'll wait for Harvey."

"Why wait? You've got me all jazzed up for a rumble and you're telling me to wait?" Sylvia said impatiently.

"He needs to know where we're going."

"Mm. He needs to know where _you're_ going. _I_ am not waiting around for anyone. I can get a few leads while you wait for your man-sitter to come around. If that makes you any happier."

"It'll only be a few more minutes."

"Where is Officer-No-Rules anyway?" Sylvia questioned lazily as she plopped back down on the love seat. "Wouldn't he be with 'Miss Thang'?"

"Who?"

"That girlfriend of his. What's her name…Scotty."

"They broke up."

"Wow. I could have seen _that_ coming from a mile away."

"It didn't shock him either."

"I bet it was because he became a cop again."

"That's the reason they broke up."

"Well, it's _her_ fault for falling for him," Sylvia reasoned. "She _knew_ he was a cop when they started dating. People don't stay away from the badge for far too long."

"Him and Scotty breaking up didn't surprise me. What surprises me is that you're still with Oswald Cobblepot—Strange let him out of Arkham for completing his rehabilitation. After hearing that, I was certain you two would be on the same path to splitting up."

"Oh, please," Sylvia scoffed, side-glancing her brother when he sat beside her. "If Fish Mooney or Falcone couldn't keep us apart, there was no way _Strange_ could. He's fucking smart, but he's not god—even if he was, _that_ wouldn't have changed things, either."

"How _is_ Oswald?" Jim asked. "The last time I saw him, he was drugged, playing duck-duck-goose behind a cage."

"He's doing better."

"Wanna tell me where he is?"

"Nope."

"I'm not a cop anymore."

"Again: Nope." Sylvia said, smiling at him. "He's been just fine without you or anyone else trying to get on his case. He's out of Arkham; he's a free man. Let him be."

"Has anyone told you how over-protective you are of him?"

"Just about everyone and their brother."

"Well, at least you know."

"I do know. Thanks. Have you talked to Barbara any? I heard she was let out."

"I did."

"And?"

"She said she loved me…."

"No surprise there."

"And she's sane."

"Per the Strange formula, I bet."

"And she asked if we could get back together." Jim said uncomfortably, looking at Sylvia with a secretive glance.

"And how'd that go?"

"I told her 'no'."

" _That's_ a pity."

"She tried to kill Lee. And I couldn't let that go. Even if Barbara _was_ sane."

"What happened after?"

Jim shrugged, "She left."

"She just 'left'?"

"Yep."

"No violent reaction?" Sylvia questioned. "No desperate pleas for attention, no signs of abandonment issues?"

"None that I witnessed."

"That's weird."

"No kidding."

"I bet you broke her beyond her own comprehension," Sylvia said knowingly.

"How do you get that?"

"Strange brainwashes people; he doesn't fix them. Especially if there's nothing to fix. Oswald was going through the same thing, but then he found himself all over again."

"You mean, he snapped out of it?" Jim clarified.

"Mm-hmm." Sylvia mused with a little impish smile. "It's quite enlightening, and reassuring. I'm pretty sure the same hold won't stand for long with Barbara. She's 'sane' today, but after her interaction with _you_ , your rejection of her might snap her out of it. It takes a bit of a traumatizing event to do it….did it with Oz, it'll do it with Babs."

"Do you think it was an act?"

"Her 'rehab' might be, but her feelings for you are genuine."

"You think I should have given her a chance?"

"Dude, if I was in your shoes, there would have been no way I could have said 'no' to those beautiful blues." Sylvia said, taking the remote from the coffee table in front of them and turning on the television. "You know, she told me once before that she had a thing for me. That if it wasn't for dating you first, she might have made a move on _me_."

Jim said darkly, "It's hard for me to find anyone who _isn't_ attracted to you."

"I know. It's like _everyone_ thinks I'm hot. I bet that's really irritating, isn't it?"

"Everyone seems to like you too."

"I'm a likeable person."

"Hm."

"Tabitha Galavan isn't too fond of me."

"Is that because you're not fond of her?"

"I also want to rip out her spine and shove it down her throat," Sylvia admitted sweetly; her smile made Jim uncomfortable.

"Is that what you really want to do?"

"Yeah."

"It's just hard to find someone who doesn't talk about my sister like she's—"

"—Something you can pick out of a deli line-up?" Sylvia finished, smirking.

"Yeah." Jim said, cringing for both of their sakes.

"Well, you know. There's at least one other person who can understand where you're coming from."

"Oh, really. Who?"

"Oswald."

Jim made a facial expression of agreement: "Perhaps we have more in common than I thought."

"Perhaps you do. How much longer 'til Harvey comes back?"

"Give him an hour."

"I'll give him fifteen minutes."

Sylvia smiled when someone knocked on the door. In that second as Jim opened it, Harvey Bullock came striding in with pizza and beer. When he saw who sat on his loveseat, he opened his arms and said, "Well, I'll be a bitch! It's Little Sister!"

"Hey, Harv," Sylvia greeted, waving at him from the loveseat.

He came over and hugged her as tight as she had hugged Jim.

**Chapter 19: A Point To Make**

"Well, I'll be a bitch! It's Little Sister!" Harvey said happily. He put the pizza and beer on the nearest counter in the kitchenette, and then headed over to the loveseat where Sylvia was seated.

As he did, Sylvia stood and she was strangled to breathlessness as Harvey gave her one hell of a strong bear hug, not unlike the one that she'd given Jim after seeing him out of prison. Harvey took mercy, and let her go, smiling big.

"No one's dead, are they?" Harvey said, glancing between her and Jim.

"No one important," Jim specified as he stepped into the living room to be a part of this friendly triangle.

"Good. The only time we're ever together is when someone's dead or their life is in danger," said Harvey mischievously, grinning widely at Sylvia. "How have you been, Little Sister?"

"I've been. Where the hell were you?"

"I got us dinner. Didn't know you'd be coming over; if I did, I'd have bought wine or vodka. I know you're not a beer person."

"I'm declining either way. I had a bowl of cereal a few minutes ago. And I'm not drinking tonight."

"Why not?" Harvey asked disappointedly.

"Well, unlike you, I do my best celebrating sober. And I have business to deal with soon after this. Jim was just waiting for you to let you know we'll be leaving." Sylvia explained, watching Harvey glance at Jim curiously.

"And where might you two be heading?" Harvey asked knowingly. "Off to cause some trouble?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Jim said lightly, "Don't worry, Vee. We can tell Harvey."

"So much for mystery," scoffed Sylvia, rolling her eyes.

"Off to find The Lady?" Harvey said lazily as he headed back into the kitchen, opened the box of cheese pizza and opened a bottle of beer with the corner of the kitchen counter. "Seems like a waste of time, if you asked me."

"Well, I didn't ask you," Jim said smartly.

"I'd say 'come back to the GCPD'. You'd have resources there. You know, importantly, _me_."

"Barnes would be watching me every step of the way." Jim reminded. "And I can't have that. It's easier if I did things my way for a while."

" _Your_ way?" Harvey repeated, chuckling. "Your way is the 'GCPD way'. Don't you know that by now?"

"He doesn't give me any credit," Sylvia snickered from the loveseat.

"I was about to say—you're doing things the Harvey Way or the Liv Way." Harvey stated with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Finally coming around, huh, partner? Liv, you're not going to bring your boys into this, are you?"

"Dagger and Chilly? No. They're trained for guarding the club and the mansion. Not this sort of thing." Sylvia said.

"Probably wouldn't hurt bringing in some muscle. People that worked for The Lady are all professional hitmen."

"Well, I take a personal offense to that," Sylvia said, mimicking a tone of hurt. "I mean, I used to work personally with Victor Zsasz. You'd think I'd get some credit as being a professional hit-woman."

"I'm sorry, Liv. But they're pretty big."

"Size means nothing," She muttered, her tone relaying some passive aggression. "I'm stronger than either you and Jim put together."

"No argument there." Harvey held up his beer and slice of pizza in surrender. "Still, I think you might want to take some of Uncle Harv's advice."

"What advice?"

"My advice, since you so sweetly asked, is to take a lookie in the Whammy Drawer. You might find something you like."

"Harvey, out of context, that sounds like an introduction to a porno."

"Well, if that's where we're headed…." Harvey chuckled slyly, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

Jim groaned, "Harvey, stop…."

Sylvia rolled her eyes at the both of them and walked towards the desk drawer that Harvey had been dropping hints about. She and Jim took a look. Ninja chucks, brass knuckles, knives galore, a baton, screwdrivers….a little bit of everything to make a strong-headed person talk. Jim took a pair of brass knuckles, the baton; while Sylvia still searched.

"I hope you don't take too long before coming back to the Force," Harvey sighed, crossing his arms and leaning his back against the wall. "I've been training Alvarez, and it's like trying to teach a halibut to fly a plane."

"Do you have anything sharper than a knife?" She asked, still moving shit around in the drawer.

"What do you plan on doing, Liv? A knife's gonna do whatever you have in mind, trust me."

"What if I wanted to sodomize someone?"

When there was no answer, she looked up from the drawer and saw Jim and Harvey staring at her, startled.

Sylvia looked between them: "What? Nothing makes a man scream louder than the idea of having something thrusted inside their asshole."

"That's disturbing," Jim mumbled, clearing his throat.

"Personal experience, Little Sister?" Harvey chuckled.

"I've never done it to someone I _hated_ , if that's what you're wanting to know." She returned, winking at Harvey, who let out a very low whistle while Jim shuddered.

"Can we go!" He said loudly, making Sylvia look at him.

" _Now_ who's being impatient?" Sylvia simpered. "I'm still looking. Just take a squat and give me a second."

Jim busied himself with polishing and cleaning his firearm while Harvey approached Sylvia, leaning the lower half of his back against the desk. She acknowledged him, lifting her gaze to meet his briefly before she admired a butterfly knife, whipping it out expertly before folding it back just as beautifully.

"So, tell me, Little Sister. How have you _really_ been?"

"Like I told you, Harvey. I've _been_." Sylvia said, imitating his interested tone with a cynical one of her own.

"I hear you've been busy, little Lark."

Sylvia gave him a look: "Why the _hell_ are people calling me that?"

"You're a show girl, darlin'. A singing sensation, a dazzling dancer…"

"A pissed off performer," Sylvia uttered underneath her breath.

"That, too. You've made something of a title for yourself."

"Funny how I'm the last to know about it."

"Well, now you know."

"Yes, _now_ I know." Sylvia returned, placing the butterfly knife back in the drawer. "What's your point? I'm assuming you _do_ have a point. Don't you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"And it is?"

"You've been busy."

"Always. It's becoming a personality trait of mine."

"People have betrayed you…."

"Mm-hmm."

"So, you know about Nygma, huh?"

"I do."

Sylvia took out a large flashlight that matched her liking. She looked at Harvey crossly.

"What _is_ your point?"

"Ed was your friend, wasn't he?"

"Yes. He was."

"And he framed Jimbo."

"I know about that." Sylvia responded irately.

"How do you feel about him now?"

Sylvia glared at him.

"You have a point to make, Harvey, I hope you plan on making it _now_. You're starting to vex me, and whatever you're implying, I don't fucking appreciate it."

Harvey shrugged.

"All right, Lark."

"Stop _calling_ me that! I'm not a fucking lark—"

"—Calm down, calm down. I was just teasing. Anyway, I'm just saying that between that blonde you killed wanting Jimbo's file, and Ed showing his true colors, I'm thinking maybe you should do some background checks on your own people. I mean, for your safety."

"That's sweet," said Sylvia sarcastically. "But I feel like there's something else you want to tell me."

"I care about Jim." Harvey said, leaning forward and speaking quietly so the subject of their conversation couldn't hear their discussion. "He's like a brother to me. Once I start feeling like you don't appreciate him as much, I'll start refiguring how I feel about you."

Sylvia narrowed her eyes at him.

"Why do I feel like you're threatening me?" She said carefully.

"I'm not threatening. Just reassuring. But you _can_ see where I'm coming from, can't you? I mean, look at the facts, Liv. First, your best friend ends up being a murderous psychopath who frames your own brother. You're married to the Penguin, who—by the way—has done plenty to our people to get the chair. _Your_ people—Dagger, for example—have a long record, longer than most. Not to mention that Chilly guy still owes Falcone for all the money that he ripped off."

Sylvia glanced at Jim, who was idly doing what he could to forget the inserting-objects-into-butts conversation. He was concentrating on nothing more than the weapon in his hand, oblivious to the heated discussion taking place between his mate and herself.

"Were you _this_ protective of him when Fish was doing her own thing?" Sylvia asked icily. "When you were forcing Jim's hand, forcing him to shoot Oswald? Threatening to get rid of Jim if he didn't do what Falcone wanted? Yeah….so _brotherly_ of you."

"That was a long time ago, Liv. And Fish _did_ hold a special place in my heart. As do you. But you're married to the guy that killed her, aren't you? That really changes things. It changes a man."

"Now, _that_ was a long time ago—Oswald killing Fish. It's like you forgot that ever happened until you need a reason to come against me. Why does knowing all of that suddenly gives you the gall to threaten me?"

"I'm just putting it out there."

"Yeah. So let me put this out there too," Sylvia snapped. " _You've_ turned against Jim more times than I have."

"Fine…." Harvey relented, frowning a little. "I'll give you that. You're right; you've been there for Jim when the rest of us weren't. But you _are_ married to the freak—" Sylvia's eyes narrowed at Harvey angrily—"and you've been running things pretty good in the Underworld, with or without him. Makes me wonder if you're still gonna be there for Jim if things start turning around."

"'Turning around'? What the hell do you mean by that?"

"What I mean is: What if the person who killed the Wayne kid's parents are _your_ people? Jim and I will be coming after them… _personally_. And then we'll be coming for you."

"Then go after them. If my people are responsible for putting Mr. and Mrs. Wayne to death, they deserve it. Even better: _I_ will deal with it. So, don't worry about me, Harvey. I'm the last person you need to worry about when it comes to Jim's health."

Sylvia closed the drawer and stopped right beside Harvey, leaning in so only he could hear her: "And the next time you threaten me again, I will be the _last_ person you'll ever talk to. Trust me on that."

Harvey smiled. "I guess I deserved that."

"I guess you _did_!"

Harvey patted her back as Jim came towards them.

"You find something?" He asked impatiently.

Sylvia held up a blow torch and a flash light.

"You're carrying _that_?" Jim questioned, eyeing the blow torch uneasily.

"Why not? It's intimidating, just look at it. Plus, I've not used one of these beautiful babies since I was a teenager." Sylvia said lovingly. "No one forgets their first time…using _this,_ I mean. Well, that and the other thing."

"Would you stop?" Jim snapped.

Harvey chuckled, "She's a riot."

"She's something." He muttered, rolling his eyes. "Let's go."

Jim went through the door. Sylvia leaned towards Harvey, who watched her steadily.

"See you later, Harvey."

"Remember what I said, Little Sister."

"Don't worry; I'll keep our boy safe." Sylvia said, grinning widely at him.

Harvey watched her leave, and he closed the door on their way out.

**Chapter 20: A Riddle With An Answer**

Torture was probably an understatement. Between Sylvia and Jim, they had interrogated 20 different assassins, all saying the same thing: none of them seemed to know where The Lady was taking up residence. It was a full day's work, and it all seemed completely mundane. That was until someone fed them a location: The Artemis. A club that was known for female endearment, but male-bashing and war-mongering.

They stood outside the club.

"How long do you suspect it'll take before they realize who they're dealing with?" Sylvia questioned.

"A few hours."

"Well, for you, maybe. But I can be very persuasive. And it's an all-woman's club. I think I have a better chance of finding her."

Jim said coolly, "Well, I can trust you, can't I?"

"Yes. You can. So, try it for a moment, hm?"

Jim encouraged her to go on. He agreed to wait a few hours, if need be. When all was said and done, Sylvia came out of the club in less than twenty minutes with a satisfied look on her face. Jim stared at her in disbelief that she had no blood on her or had acquired any injuries.

"Did you get the name?" Jim asked eagerly.

"Yeah."

"Do I even want to know how you managed to get it?"

"You can know, if you ask."

"Why do I feel like it's something I won't approve of?" asked Jim knowingly.

"Because you probably wouldn't."

"Did she suffer?"

"Well, jeez, I didn't _kill_ her. What kind of person do you think I am?"

"Well, what did you do?"

"I offered her money," Sylvia responded simply. "She knew who I was, what I did for a living. I bought her off, and she gave me the name. Simple."

Jim grinned despite himself: "I knew I could count on you."

"You can always count on me. What are siblings for?"

She and Jim started down the street. It was a quiet night, oddly enough. Taking into consideration how quick it had been, Jim was feeling the anticlimactic shock; things never worked out quite so easily, especially when it meant bending the law.

"You didn't tell me everything, did you, Vee?"

She looked at him reproachfully: "Why on earth would you think that?"

"You did more than just offer her money."

"Did I?"

"What else did you offer her?"

"I kept _you_ out of the deal, if that makes you feel any different."

"That implies that someone else is involved."

"I _can_ influence people without getting others involved, you know," Sylvia reminded, aloof. "Not _everything_ has to involve putting lives in danger."

"Well, if we were talking about Penguin or myself, I could believe that. Strangers seem to be fair game to you."

"I told you. I've had to do things differently since I started running things by myself." Sylvia reminded calmly. "It's a dog-eat-dog world in Gotham, but every now and then, you find a person who turns out to be a pussy. And The Lady—as people call her—turned out to be one. She wanted her reputation and her weird assassin business back, few people in her employ, and she wanted money. I gave her money so she can get her life back on track."

"And there was an exception, I hope?"

"Yes, of course, there was."

"And what was it?"

Sylvia said firmly, "No cops. She could order a hit on anyone except for police officers, my husband, and myself. Everyone else…fair game."

"You should have gone into more specifics," Jim cautioned.

"Concerning what I have done in the past and what lengths I will go to make sure no one hurts my family. I didn't have to get too specific. A woman like her is smart; she won't put her own life at risk, not even to protect clients. Odds are, if I hadn't been so generous with finances, she'd have turned against me and I wouldn't have found out that the man you're looking for goes by 'The Philosopher'."

"What is 'The Philosopher', a nickname?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"That's more than what I had," Jim said hopefully.

"Yes, but that's just another goose chase, isn't it?"

"For now, yes."

Sylvia patted his shoulder: "Well, you're more than welcome to go on that goose chase."

"You're not going to find him with me?"

"If you get a name, I'll be more than happy to torture and punch the living daylights out of anyone you bring me. Otherwise, I have a kingdom to rule, and an old friend to visit."

"You're going to visit Ed?"

Sylvia said coldly, "He framed you and pretended to be my friend. I believe a visit is overdue, don't you think?"

"You can't lock the door and turn off the cameras—you're not in the GCPD station, you know, when you go to Arkham."

"I don't plan on hurting him."

"You say that _now_." Jim quirked an eyebrow. "What's to stop you from kicking his ass if there's no one to pull you back."

"I talked to Oswald when he was still in; you can't find one single fucking room _without_ a guard." Sylvia said blatantly. "I'm sure that Ed's situation will be no different. If Strange doesn't want a lawsuit, he'll have one if Ed isn't protected. The man might be incarcerated in a loony bin, but I'm sure it has only made Ed wiser."

Jim wrapped an arm around her shoulder, bringing her to him and kissed her forehead.

"I'll see you later, then."

"Love you."

"Love you too." Jim said, grinning when she pushed him away from her playfully and then they parted ways.

On the clock, it read 12:31 P.M.

But in Arkham Asylum, time was an illusion.

Edward Nygma was able to figure that one out really quick. The guards and Hugo Strange told the 'patients' when to get up, when to eat, when to engage in therapy (if an intellectual would call it 'therapy'), and when to go to bed. The only interesting thing that ever happened in the hospital was during 'social' events, during which the patients were permitted to engage one another in conversation. Conversation was rare…normally, Ed found himself watching _other_ people try to engage in conversation.

It was more interesting than having one with, say, the child-like wonder, Aaron, or the others….Aaron, and Rudy, the patient who had five different personalities operating within the same catalyst, were the only patients that Ed could properly tolerate….them, and a kleptomaniac woman who went by the name of Sharon.

None of them were worth the stimulating conversation, but Ed found them to be the most tolerable…more than Strange or Ms. Peabody anyway.

That didn't stop him from trying to gain their favor—not that they appreciated it. The only time Dr. Strange or his apathetic nurse ever took interest in him was during these rancid therapy sessions, during which Strange discussed possibilities of ambitious rehabilitation that Penguin had no doubt undergone and of which Ed had no will or interest in participating.

So, they left him alone.

He was observing the engagement of social gatherers from a corner, standing by his lonesome near the fenced walls when a guard approached from behind, tapping the fence with a flash light. His reverie had delved so deeply, Ed was immediately irritated with the guard's blatant interruption and he gave him a heavy-lidded glare.

That was until the guard said gruffly, "You got a visitor, Point-Dexter."

"Oh, how interesting." Ed responded, grinning toothily.

The guard opened the cage, forcibly pulled Ed out of the room, and guided him down the hall to a larger room. The room itself looked no different in comparison to the other plain rooms he'd occupied beforehand, but Ed found the accommodations to his liking; especially when the guard removed his wrist shackles.

He sat in the chair provided to him, crossing one long leg over the knee of his other and smiled greatly when the door opposite of him opened to reveal a familiar face.

Sylvia Cobblepot approached the table, wearing a low, off-the-shoulder, navy blue blouse; the sleeves trailed off in magnificent drapes; she reminded him of a vampire queen…She met his eyes with a less than fascinated gaze. If she were anything like the creature of the night, Ed was certain her fangs would be extended so that she could bite him.

She'd taken upon herself to be a little nice to him, placing a bottle of Mountain Dew in front of him while she drank a bottled coke. Ed waited for the guard to poise himself just beside the door, which closed upon her full entry.

A few minutes passed during which neither party spoke.

Sylvia sat opposite of him, her leg crossed over the other, mirroring his seated position. She gazed at him for a long time, her eyes taking in his black-and-white stripes, the number on his uniform, the curliness of his untamed hair, and the calm tranquility of his disposition.

"How have you been?" Ed was the first to speak.

Sylvia gave him a sarcastic smile: "I've been better. You?"

"Same."

"How nice." Sylvia muttered, rolling her eyes. She gave him another once-over look, adding, "You look different when you're not wearing a shirt and tie. Or a sweater."

"I feel like I'm wearing a trash bag, to be honest."

"Maybe that's what you should have been wearing all along."

"Meaning?"

"It was my sarcastic way of calling you 'garbage'. A smart man like yourself, I thought you might have caught it."

"I did, in fact." Ed returned smoothly. "I was giving you a chance to retract it."

"Oh, you mean to 'take it back'? I don't think I owe you that kindness." Sylvia said smartly—the harsh tone that he had been expecting all along was slowly surfacing, and the ice in her eyes came forth to its full potential.

Ed cleared his throat. He thought after killing a few people, he wouldn't have this feeling anymore. That desperate need to gain her approval. Despite his habitual way of trying to repress his feelings for her—nay, to bury them in sarcasm—had done nothing for him.

"I thought you were my friend," Sylvia said quietly, looking at him.

Contrary to what he had been anticipating, Ed noticed she didn't look at him like she hated him. In fact, he wished she did. Instead, she appeared hurt.

"I didn't do anything to _you_." Ed reminded. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Well, fun fact: ya did." Sylvia replied none too gently. "You put my brother behind bars."

"He's out now."

"Yeah!" She snapped, suddenly standing and scooting her chair back with a screech. "Because _you_ were founded out, jerk!"

Ed blinked.

He leaned forward; his hands stretched outward on the table.

"Sylvia, he knew about Kristen. It was only a matter of time before—"

"—Before he caught you— _Yes_ , it was only a matter of fucking time!" Sylvia shouted. "And you knew that! But you panicked, _just_ like I thought you would, Ed! So instead of finding a way out of it, you fucking **frame** my brother! Was that your fucking plan!"

Ed shrugged: "Honestly, I didn't think I'd have been able to pull it off if your brother hadn't been so convincing."

Sylvia's eyes shifted. Her face suddenly became calm, like all her anger had suddenly been extinguished, taken out of her in a single go. This made Ed's heart beat quickly: whether that was because he was intoxicated by her passionate rage or he was undoubtedly intimidated by it, he wasn't certain which accounted for the acceleration of his heart rate, but he knew it.

She leaned over the table, eyes glaring daggers.

"You framed Jim for a crime he didn't commit!" Sylvia said hatefully. "He lost his job—he lost a _child—_ and you're _proud of it!_ Who the hell are you, Nygma!"

"I am who I have been trying to be all this time!" Ed snapped, getting to his feet. "I wanted to know what I was too, and now I do!"

"You're a liar and a cheat," Sylvia said, pointing to him. "Congratulations."

"I never cheated—"

"You cheated _me._ You lied _to me_. Just when I thought I had you figured out, you turn around and do this to me! What the hell did I ever do to you, Ed?" Sylvia responded hotly.

"Nothing, you did nothing to me," He was trying to reassure her, his hands waving.

"I cried on your shoulder, you told me I had nothing to worry about. If I had known I had to worry about **you** turning on my family, I wouldn't have been so fucking complacent, so **stupid**!"

"Sylvia—"

" _You were my friend, Ed, and I trusted you!_ "

"—I didn't mean to hurt you—"

"You may not have meant to, but you did," Sylvia responded angrily. "Do you have any idea what I have gone through since Jim was put away? That, and Oswald getting put into Arkham and him getting released, and just every fucking asshole who is trying to take Gotham away from me…You were the last person I thought who would ever go behind my back and hurt me this way. So you didn't mean to hurt me—you framed my brother for a crime he didn't commit. A crime that _I_ was guilty of, that you _knew_ I was guilty of—and he couldn't say anything because he was protecting _me_!"

Ed was at a loss for words. He hated it when Sylvia was mad at him. It would have only been a matter of time before she found out what he had done. Still, he hadn't expected such an emotional outcry from her…then again, if he hadn't expected it, how well did he know her?

At some point, Sylvia had calmed down and she merely stood in front of Ed, who was seated uncomfortably. He didn't know what to say—what _could_ he say. Anything that came out of his mouth was an apology or a stammered excuse for his actions. And anything he did say would throw her into another temper tantrum.

Sylvia stared at him, then she shook her head.

"I don't know what I was expecting from this visit," She said tiredly. "I don't expect anything from you. I just wanted you to know how much you hurt me."

Sylvia was about to turn away, to leave him, but Ed grabbed her wrist. Slowly, she turned to look at him. Dangerously, her eyes met his, but he didn't falter. He didn't regress. Instead, he looked straight in her eyes and said, "I'm sorry, Liv. I didn't mean to hurt you. You were right; I folded under the pressure, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

Sylvia's lips tightened. She jerked her hand out of his grip.

"The fact that you framed Jim doesn't upset me nearly as much as the fact that you lied to—my—face," Sylvia said painfully. "You stood there, and told me that you didn't have any idea who was behind the crap happening to him. And it's not you lied to make me feel better; you just didn't want me to find out it was all your fault. You weren't thinking of anyone but yourself when you framed him."

"How can I make it up to you?" Ed said quickly, looking up at her.

Sylvia frowned. For a second, she was silent. That bitter, stony silence.

"Please tell me what to do."

His voice betrayed him as his words came out desperate.

Finally, she spoke.

"You can have me but cannot hold me; Gain me and quickly lose me. If treated with care I can be great. And if betrayed I will break." Sylvia said quietly. "What am I?"

"Trust."

"I still want you as my friend. But in order for that to happen, I'll have to be able to trust you again," Sylvia said darkly. "When you find a way to make it up to me, you let me know."

And with that said, she left.

Ed stared after her.

Suddenly, this desolate cage—this hell—had become a darker nightmare.

**Chapter 21: Galavan Dies Again**

Sylvia turned on the news, and while she always expected some macabre story about a man getting beaten to death in the alley or a child orphaned in the middle of the night, she stopped sipping from her glass of vodka when a female News Reporter spoke; as she did, the screen flipped to an impossible view of a man who appeared to be Galavan, dressed in leather and looking unlike himself, hopping rooftops, landing on vehicles.

" _Captain Nathaniel Barnes remains in critical condition at Gotham General after suffering a violent attack by a masked criminal late last night. So far, no arrests have been made but reports coming in from within the locked down GCPD have confirmed that the masked man is, in fact, former Mayor, Theo Galavan. Searches continued throughout the night, but as of right now, Galavan's whereabouts remain a mystery_."

Sylvia stared at the TV.

Dagger and Chilly, who stood inside the Meeting Room with her, glanced at each other with the same expression, wondering the same thing: _Did_ they hear that correctly? _Was_ Galavan was alive? Granted, the man dressed in leather and bounding from one building to another had called himself 'Azrael'. Perhaps it was hearsay, but if the GCPD had confirmed it, it was 90% true.

"Only in Gotham," Sylvia sighed, shaking her head.

Mr. Bell shot through the doors in distress.

"Miss Sylvia! Miss Sylvia!"

"I know, I know. I saw it," Sylvia returned calmly, gesturing to the television.

Mr. Bell calmed himself, straightening his tie, as he stood behind her throne, watching the tale of woe with her. A depiction of yesterday's news repeated on the screen, showing a close-up of Galavan's bloody face, which made Sylvia frown.

"A man like that doesn't know when to stay fucking dead," She said snidely, putting down her drink on the table. She glanced at Mr. Bell. "Does anyone know where he is now?"

"No one. No one does."

"Well, that's disappointing."

A loud voice that came from the front door and echoed all the way through the mansion, shouted: "I'm the GCPD for _crying_ out loud! If you knew what's good for you, you'd back the hell off!"

Harvey Bullock stormed inside the room, looking more disheveled than the last time Sylvia had seen him. When he came through the doors, Dagger, Chilly, and Mr. Bell pulled their weapons from the holstered pockets on their belts, and cocked, and aimed their guns at the bounding detective, who was momentarily surprised by their reaction…for whatever reason that might have been.

Harvey held up his hands and said with a chuckle, "Hey, now…I'm here on a friendly visit."

"You might want to lower your voice then," Sylvia offered, reclining back in her seat.

Harvey gave her a look, lowering his hands to his sides: "Have you seen the news?"

"I just heard." Sylvia answered flatly, turning off the TV. "Galavan's alive. Who would have thought, right?"

"And he's nowhere to be found."

"Meaning?"

"I think you know what I mean."

"I'm getting pretty tired of your quiet threats," Sylvia said patiently. "While you're changing the volume of your voice, would you ever so _kindly_ change your tone?"

Harvey gave a polite (slightly sarcastic) bow in her direction, considering her suggestion. _He_ may be the GCPD, but currently, he stood in a room full of guards who not only despised police officers but were ready to die for their mistress in any case Sylvia gave the word to start and finish a war.

Smiling at his submission, Sylvia continued: "I know what you mean, but you're wrong. I haven't the faintest idea where he is."

"You don't?"

"No. I don't. But if I did, I doubt I would be telling the police."

"You still want him dead, don't you?" Harvey said humorously.

"Of course, I do."

"And you're telling me you don't where he is?"

"For the third time: No. I don't know where he is."

Suddenly, coming up behind Harvey Bullock was Jim, who was breathless as he caught up to his partner. He bent down at the waist, hands on his knees, leaning forward as he attempted to catch his breath, looking up at Harvey with an unhappy expression.

"I told you," Jim said through gritted teeth, "to _wait_ for me."

"Well, you were taking too long, Jimbo."

"I was _five_ minutes away."

"See, that was still too long," Harvey debated, shrugging carelessly. "It doesn't matter anyway. Little Sister doesn't know anything. She _just_ found out, she said."

Jim, who successfully managed to catch his breath, looked at Sylvia as though she'd just popped out of the ground like a dandelion. Sylvia smiled at the both of them.

"I don't listen to the news _every_ time I walk into a fucking room," Sylvia explained, standing. "I try _not_ to watch the news anymore. That has probably added five more years to my lifespan."

"So, you don't know where Azrael is?" Jim questioned.

"Who the fuck is Azrael?"

"The guy leaping from rooftops, the same man that shot the captain."

"Galavan, you mean."

"Yeah. _That's_ Azrael." Harvey said pointedly.

"Well, I don't know who the fuck _Azrael_ is, but that's **_Galavan_**." Sylvia insisted.

"That's not what the newspapers are calling him—"

"—Harvey, I swear to god—"

"—But 'Galavan' it is!" Harvey finished, grinning at her.

"You know," Jim said curiously, "There's _one_ person who might know where he is."

"Well, you told me that your sister would know," Harvey reminded sarcastically. "I'm starting to think your detective skills are dwindling down to the bare bones. You've been out of the job too long, brother!"

"I told you that Sylvia would _want_ to know where Galavan is—never did I say that she knew his location. _Your_ listening skills might be 'dwindling', Harv."

"Hey, hey, I _know_ what I heard." Harvey argued, pointing at Jim.

"Yeah, you know what you heard," He chuckled. He turned to Sylvia, who stared at them with an increasing annoyance: "Who knows Galavan better than anyone?"

"His mother," Sylvia returned apathetically.

Harvey shrugged: "Well, that's not far from the truth."

"His _sister_." Jim emphasized.

There was a meaningful pause between Harvey and Jim before they turned in Sylvia's direction. Expectations.

Sylvia sighed and languidly stepped behind her chair, crossing her arms over the back of it, saying, "You want to know where Tabitha Galavan is, don't you?"

Harvey and Jim glanced at each other, then nodded, both verbalizing a strong 'yes'.

Carelessly, Sylvia drawled, "Why would I know where she is?"

"You've been keeping tabs on her," Jim stated knowingly (Harvey gesticulated to Jim with emphasis.) "Her _and_ Butch. You told me yourself."

"So, I have. But that was more for my benefit, not yours. She has been a forever pain in my side since I met her. A thorn _that_ big never ceases to cause me pain even when she's nowhere near me. Still, I like to keep an eye on her, in any case she wants to try to contest me again. But that's enough about me: You want to find Tabitha so you can find Theo, so you can arrest him," Sylvia said, looking at Harvey. "I want to find Galavan, so I can have the luxury of killing him a _second_ time."

"Vee—" Jim began, but she cut him off.

"Don't 'Vee' me," Sylvia snapped. "It's _literally_ a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to kill a man a second time, a golden opportunity; and I'm shooting for the stars, babe."

Harvey sighed impatiently, "Would you just tell us where—"

" _Harvey_ …." Jim warned.

Harvey held up his hands with a scathing noise and he decided to let Jim work out his own plan. The detective stepped off to the sidelines to the other side of the room, looking at the different knickknacks on Sylvia's bookcases while still listening to the conversation.

Sylvia minded Harvey before turning to Jim, expecting him to butter her up.

"You're in the negotiating business, aren't you?" Jim offered, gesturing to her.

"Always have been."

"So, let's negotiate."

Sylvia's eyebrow quirked upwards, and she smirked at him.

"That's something I'd never thought I would hear from you. And that would normally work on me; but our little cop friend already gave up your plans and reasons for finding Miss Galavan. You want to find Theo, put him in jail a second time—"

"—You're wrong—"

"Am I?" Sylvia voiced skeptically.

"Yes."

"I find that hard to believe. Since you're a cop—"

"—You see me right now? I'm not wearing a badge—"

"—And I'm not wearing handcuffs, but that doesn't make me any less a criminal." Sylvia interrupted him. "Not wearing your badge doesn't stop you from thinking like a cop."

She placed one arm along the mantle of the fireplace and the other on her hip, looking very much like a contemplating manager in lieu of a different proposition.

"You want to find Galavan, bring him to justice," Sylvia presumed. " _I_ want to find him so I can kill him; and this time, I'll make sure he stays that way. If you want to negotiate, you're more than welcome to throw some odds my way, but I doubt you'll persuade me."

"Killing him changed you, Vee."

"I've changed _very_ little since killing him the first time. I doubt I will feel any different after the fact."

"What would you have?"

Sylvia blinked and said humorously, "You want to give me something in exchange for saving _Theo Galavan's_ life? He fucked up our lives _more_ than once, James. He tortured Gertrud, and put Oswald through hell—not to mention, if you remember, that he tried to kill you more than once! And _now_ he's put **your** captain in the hospital! He has meddled with our lives too many times, and if you think you can buy me off with some pathetic attempt to appeal to my humanity, you don't know me _at all_."

"I want Galavan dead."

"Which one?"

"Pardon?"

"You have to be more specific." Sylvia offered. "Personally, both of them could fucking eat dirt for all _I_ care. Between Galavan just being his dickless self and Tabitha being a bitch, I could watch them both burn on a stake and I wouldn't lose any sleep. So, if you want to have _any_ Galavan killed, you might want to consider being a little bit more specific."

Jim frowned. "You want to hear my proposition or not?"

Sylvia held her hand out to him with encouragement.

"Azrael or not, Galavan stabbed our captain; he's in critical condition," Jim said darkly. "I want to find Galavan, and I want to make him pay. One way or another. But he's not the same person he was. He can jump from building to building; he has super human strength. You won't be able to kill him with just a gun."

"Is he still a man?"

"Kinda," Harvey answered from behind a sculpture of a Knight, earning a cool look from Sylvia.

"Then he can be killed…. _kinda_." Sylvia reasoned. "But you have an army at your disposal, Jim. You have Harvey Bullock and the rest of the squad at your command. Why would you need me?"

"I need to know where Tabitha and Butch are residing."

"You're a detective. Despite what your former partner would suggest, I personally doubt that your detective skills are lacking. You would have found Tabitha without my help. Yet, you came here anyway. You know I want Theo dead for what he's done to my family. Yet, you came to _me_. All of that said, I just want know why you're here."

"I can depend on you."

"We all know that. What _else_?"

"Things might get messy," Harvey answered for Jim.

"I can talk for myself, you know." Jim said irritably.

"Yeah, I know, buddy. But at the rate this conversation was going, we would have been here til next Christmas." Harvey sighed candidly, smiling encouragingly at Jim as he patted his back. "The thing is, Little Sis" (Sylvia gave a condescending look) "we're in something of a bind. Even after we find Tabitha and then, who knows, we find Galavan, we've still got a monster on our hands. He was dead, and now he's alive—big and bad as ever. And I'm not just talking about personality. He fights dirty."

"You've fought dirty," Sylvia reminded him.

"Yeah, but you can fight dirtier." Harvey responded. "You're good at this kind of thing. You're like a…what the hell are those dogs called—you know, you give 'em a piece of clothing or some kind of meat and they sniff things out—A bloodhound!"

"A bloodhound?" asked Jim, unimpressed.

"Yeah! One of those! Better than any I've ever seen!" Harvey enthused. He took Sylvia by the shoulders and said quietly, "Plus, if there's anyone more eager to see that son-of-a-bitch killed again, it's you, baby doll. You're like an energizer bunny: wind you up, and watch you go."

"So many compliments," Sylvia uttered, half-amused.

"So what about it, huh? Will you tell us where Tabitha and the Gorilla are?"

"I'll do you one better." Sylvia said, scooting her chair into the table. "I'll lead you to her. Should be easy enough. They built something of a fortress just outside a city with few enough guards."

"How many people?" asked Jim.

"Twenty or thirty guards, give or take."

"Twenty guards?" Harvey said unhappily. He whistled low to Jim. "We're gonna need more people, Jimbo."

"Not necessarily." Sylvia said sweetly, gathering her coat from a helpful Dagger.

"We're outnumbered."

"Like I said: not necessarily."

"Why is that not necessary?"

"More than half of them are in my pocket," Sylvia said with a wink. "They will literally let us walk right in."

Harvey looked a little more at ease while Jim gave him a look. Harvey chuckled: "It must be really nice to have a shoe-in with these tough characters. Don't ya think so, Jim?"

"Shut up, Harvey." Jim muttered. But even _he_ couldn't deny that.

Some five miles outside of Gotham, Sylvia parked Harvey's car. According to her, it was better not to have the guards see a cop's car coming up the road. So, they would walk, instead.

"You pay all of these people just to keep watch on Tabitha?" Harvey questioned. "Must be a nice gig."

Sylvia strode between the two men with both hands in the pockets of her coat, glancing at Harvey with a coy smile: "Before you think I'm made of diamonds, I don't pay them all with money."

"Oh? Well, well, a little bit of Little Sister I didn't know," snickered Harvey.

Sylvia shot him a glare (one that mirrored Jim's as well).

She snapped, "I'm not _sleeping_ with them **either**."

"I was just kidding!" Harvey said quickly, holding up his hands in caution. "I _swear…_."

"Mm-hmm, I'm so sure you were."

"So, these people that work for Tabitha and Butch…but they're really working for you."

"Yeah."

"How does that work?" Harvey asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Simple. They do what Butch and Tabitha want, they tell me what they've been asked to do. I give them money, and they provide for their families: it's that simple."

"You just said you don't pay them all with money."

"It might come as a fucking shock to you, but a lot of them just like my company," Sylvia remarked lazily, as they walked through a gate. "I'm a likable person, if you haven't figured that one out."

"How come they don't offer their services to Penguin so quickly?"

"His management style is Stalinesque. Mine is…."

Harvey prodded her shoulder, encouragingly: "Yours _is_ …? Yours is what?"

Jim chimed in dryly, "She's like a mother to them."

"Ah! So, the people who don't want your money…They want your approval." Harvey sniggered. "Damn, that's perverted."

"Well, it _works_ , doesn't it!" Sylvia snipped.

"So, in a way, you and Penguin have been playing House," Harvey laughed. "How does it go, huh? He's the Dad, you're the Mom. If the children don't want to do what they're asked when Mother Hen asks the first time, Dad bribes them with money—if that doesn't work, they get the rod. Otherwise, they'll do what you've asked because they want Mom's approval? That's what you're telling me, Liv?"

Sylvia rolled her eyes. "In not so many words, yes."

Harvey shook his head, laughing all the way to the door.

Jim silenced him, nudging him hard in the stomach as Sylvia stepped up to the front entrance, approaching three stocky men who eyed her carefully.

"You know who I am?" Sylvia stated calmly.

"Yeah, we do." The middle man said lightly. "What do you want?"

"I want inside." She replied politely. "I have business with Tabitha."

The male on the speaker's right spoke quietly to the latter, during which a debate had begun. It was shut down quickly when the stocky guard on Sylvia's right stepped forward and smiled at her like she was an old friend of his.

"How've you been, Mrs. P?" He asked.

"Great. How are you, Richard?" She returned.

"I've been better."

"How's the wife and daughter?"

"Catty as ever."

"She's in…high school, right?"

"Just entered Freshman year." Richard said, nodding his head, wearing a smile on his face. "She's getting big."

"And you're getting wiser," Sylvia remarked, winking at him. "Probably a good thing too. Girls at that age—fifteen—they can be a real handful."

"You'd know that personally, wouldn't you, Mrs. P?"

"I wasn't _that_ much of a handful," Sylvia said coyly.

From behind her, Jim muttered to Harvey, "Only when she was at home."

Harvey snickered, "So that was none of the time, right, partner?"

Sylvia gave the two men a look before returning her attention to Richard, who was so talked up that he smiled in leniency.

"She's okay, guys!" Richard told his coworkers. "Let her pass."

"But Tabitha said—"

"— _Nevermind what she said_!" Richard snarled, glaring at them. "Who was put in charge?"

"You..."

"And I said 'she's good'." Richard said firmly.

The other guards became submissive and stepped to the side. Sylvia smiled sweetly at Richard, who held out his hand for her to shake.

"Be sweet and compassionate with that daughter of yours," Sylvia said gently. "The first man a girl can trust is her daddy."

"Yes, Ma'am. You know I will!"

She walked past him, saying, "Jim and Harvey are with me."

"Yes, Ma'am."

With that said, Jim and Harvey nodded at the guards as they let them through. Sylvia kept on walking down the hall of a mansion, while Jim and Harvey caught up to her, walking on her left and right.

Harvey leaned in: "Richard, huh? Seems like you have a nice rapport with him. Like you got a friendship, there."

"He was nearly divorced and his daughter is a train wreck," Sylvia mused, smiling a little. "He worked for Fish Mooney, once upon a time."

"Is that one you pay with your approval or with money?" Harvey teased.

"Money."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Really? The way you talked to him…."

"I don't have to pay for everything I want. Sometimes, they just like to have a decent discussion. Manners don't cost anything."

Harvey and Jim switched glances before they came through a door where, apparently, Tabitha and Butch were having it out in not so many words: Tabitha had packed her bags and was trying to leave while Butch was trying to persuade her to stay, saying he'd work on improving himself for her.

"Did we catch you two at a bad time?" Harvey snickered as they entered the room fully.

"Seriously! How do people keep getting in here! Do I have _no_ security at all!" Butch shouted after the surprise had dulled quickly. He turned, saw Sylvia standing there, and that seemed to answer his question altogether.

He greeted her briskly, "Hi…."

"Hello, Butchy. How's the new place?"

"You think you can just barge right in, don't ya?"

"Oh, did that upset you?" Sylvia returned, feigning surprise.

"Obviously. Can't you tell?"

"I don't know," She said sarcastically. "I guess I should, but that's the incredible thing, you know. Because, how would _I_ know what that's like."

" _Guys_!" Jim snapped.

Butch and Sylvia glanced at Jim, who gave them a 'can you stop' expression before he and Harvey turned to Tabitha, who stared at them irritably.

"Why the rush?" Jim asked.

"Time to move on," Tabitha answered.

"Oh, really? Is that it? Or are you worried that Galavan's coming after you too? Don't worry, Butch; it's not you. She's just afraid of her brother. Come on. Help me find him," said Jim softly. "You two hardly left on the best of terms."

"Must have been weird seeing your dead brother show up like a ninja dressed from medieval times," Harvey chimed in, leaning into her so Tabitha glared at him irately.

Slowly, she glanced between them before lowering the duffel bag full of clothes to the floor and then took two steps to a table on which an empty glass and a bottle of whiskey sat. Silently, she poured the bottle one-fourth of the way.

"That thing that stabbed your captain last night was not my brother. It was a three-hundred-year old assassin who went by the name 'Azrael'."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, muttering, "That name again."

Ignoring her, Tabitha continued, "That image I saw on the news—his clothes, the way he walked—that was Azrael. A mythical figure worshipped by the monks who raised my brother. A cold-hearted killing machine that was sent into the night to kill his master's enemies...and he wants _you_."

Jim and Harvey exchanged skeptical looks.

"An ancient assassin?" Jim scoffed.

"A _legend_." Tabitha emphasized. "My family used to tell stories of him."

"You mean, he was real?"

"Who knows. It was three hundred years ago. Probably, yeah."

"So, your brother's gone nuts?" guessed Harvey.

Tabitha put down the glass, approached Harvey and said smartly, "I don't know. You tell _me._ Theo convince you that he was Azrael last night or do you think he was acting? Someone got into my brother's head…It's not a safe place to be."

Jim said gingerly, "If you're right, I want to find this person. But in order for me to do that, I have to find your brother first. So help me."

"If a search team finds him," Harvey added, "They're gonna kill him."

"Or I will," Sylvia muttered, crossing her arms.

Tabitha frowned at her, saying, "Why are _you_ here, anyway?"

"I like gate crashing," Sylvia replied, smiling sarcastically. "Makes me happy, gives me the jollies. As many times as you barged into _my_ home, I figured I ought to do the same. See how it makes you feel? The only difference is that I didn't intimidate your people."

"I think she charmed her way in here," Butch said, glancing back at the front entrance. "I had three people placed outside those doors! And I had ten of 'em on the walkway!"

Tabitha glared: "You've killed my brother once already. Wasn't that good enough?"

"Nah," Sylvia said, shaking her head. "Given the option, I'd probably do it another twenty times, and it still wouldn't be good enough. It'd probably make me feel a little better though."

"Vee!" Jim snapped. "Could you not!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" Sylvia returned, waving her hand dismissively at him.

Jim turned back to Tabitha.

"You have to help me find him. He's still your brother, after all. He's blood."

Tabitha considered these words: "The sword that was used last night, the one that broke—it was fake."

"And you know this, how?" Harvey asked.

"The real one belonged to my grandfather. He was an antiquities collector, obsessed with Dumas history. I saw it once. It was beautiful, forged by the monks themselves. It's said to hold supernatural powers. Theo knew this. It's possible he'll attempt to steal it back."

"Does your grandfather still have it?" asked Harvey.

"And where is he?" Jim questioned.

"Gotham Cemetery. My grandfather has been dead for twenty years." Tabitha returned.

Crestfallen looks from Harvey and Jim made Tabitha smile a little, but she added mischievously, "He _was_ buried with his treasures."

"So, we're going to a graveyard?" Harvey said falteringly, glancing at Jim.

"Whatever it takes," Jim said, rubbing his hands together. He glanced at Sylvia, "Coming, Vee?"

"Oh, am I allowed to talk now?" Sylvia said snidely.

Tabitha chuckled, "I guess most _pigeons_ aren't allowed inside because of the useless _noise_ they make."

"Stop calling me that."

"I've heard bird boy call you 'Pigeon' several times," She sneered. "I don't understand why you respond to that one. It doesn't suit you. Perhaps 'Swallow' is better for you. Bet Penguin would like that more, wouldn't he."

Sylvia stepped towards her. Jim and Harvey exchanged uneasy expressions. Butch stepped out of the crossfire, inching away to stand beside Jim. Tabitha smirked at her.

"You really want me to kill you, don't you?" Sylvia said coolly—in spite of her patient tone, her neck and ears had become flushed with both irritation and embarrassment.

"You know I like pushing your buttons."

"You're about to push the wrong ones."

"I think I'm pushing the right ones… _Pigeon_."

"Vee, _no_!" Jim quickly grabbed Sylvia's arm and yanked her back just as she pulled a switchblade from the pocket of her coat, lunging for Tabitha's neck.

Once Jim restrained Sylvia, Harvey grabbed her switchblade.

"Vee, _stop_! **Vee** …hey, hey, look at me… _Look at me_."

She looked at him.

"Don't let her get to you like that. She's just trying to bait you."

"If she wants to die faster and sooner, who am I to deny that type of request?"

Tabitha yawned, "Gonna have to try harder than that if you wanna get to _me_ , little Pigeon."

Sylvia advanced towards her with Jim's arm separating the two women.

"God _damn_ it, Vee, calm down—"

"One day, you're not going to have _any_ guards _or_ my brother keeping you safe," Sylvia threatened, glaring daggers at her. "When that day comes, I'm going to put a fucking knife down your fucking throat and watch you drown in your own goddamn blood, you fucking bitch!"

She turned on her heel and stormed out.

Already exhausted, Jim let out a deep sigh while Harvey, whose eyebrows were raised high, smiled in spite of himself, clearly impressed.

Tabitha looked at Butch, expecting him to act or say something after Sylvia's threat but Butch silently placed his arm around her waist, and encouraged her to keep moving.

Even _he_ thought Tabitha had pushed a boundary.

Twenty minutes later, Sylvia, Jim, Harvey, and Tabitha all stepped out of a car and walked up to a large building along the outskirts of Gotham Cemetery, which was pretty big for all the people buried there. Jim and Harvey managed to become a barrier between the two women as either of them were willing to put a knife in the other's throat at the first opportunity they had.

Behind a locked gate was the Dumas crypt, to which Tabitha didn't have a key.

"You're a Dumas and you don't have a key?" Sylvia questioned sardonically. "What good are _you_?"

"You don't have a key either, you know."

"I'm not part of that decrepit family of yours."

"Right, like your family is all gold and glamor."

"A lot more glamorous than yours," Sylvia said, sticking her tongue out at Tabitha, who returned the childish antic.

"It's going to be a long day if these two keep going at it," Harvey muttered.

Jim uttered under his breath, "Well, at least they stopped trying to kill each other. That's an improvement."

"Compared to what?"

"You got a point."

"So if no one has a key," said Harvey with mild amusement, "how are we getting into this thing?"

Jim looked around, finding a tool shed. He left, shortly retreating with a crow bar. With it, he unhinged the lock from its placement; through the gate, they pressed on. Opening the door to the crypt was easier, all things considered. All four persons entered inside, and the spider webs, rats, and sun-stained glass welcomed their intrusion.

"Dark, dusty, uninhabitable by humans," Sylvia mused. "Like Tabitha's sex life."

"Fuck you." Tabitha hissed.

"Fuck _you_? No thanks." Sylvia said, raising a hand. "Not interested."

"I guess if it doesn't waddle or limp, it doesn't do anything for you, huh?"

"Well, in hindsight, I don't pander to people who follow losers."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means whatever you want it to mean—whichever pisses you off more,' Sylvia said with a cheeky smile.

"Fuck you."

"You keep coming onto me, but I'm still not interested."

Tabitha scoffed, "Go fuck yourself."

"I'll do that when I get back home; in the meantime, you can go find a cactus to blow."

"Not until you find one first."

"Ohhh, nice comeback—where'd you find that one: in your daddy's closet?"

"LADIES!" Harvey shouted, his voice echoing off the burial stones.

Tabitha and Sylvia glared at one another before moving forward and purposely keeping enough distance between them. Sylvia glanced at the stones, wondering how on earth anyone was to know which burial box was one person's or another. No names, no markings, or engravings of any kind.

"This is it." Tabitha said, patting the flat stone of a single coffin. "This one belongs to my grandfather."

Jim circled it, preparing his crow bar for the ultimate dig, but Harvey said nervously, "Hey, hey, wait, wait, wait…I think we're breaking more than a few laws here, don't you think?"

Jim stared at him: "Really? _This_ is where you draw the line?"

"Come on…." Harvey said weakly. "This doesn't creep you out even a little bit! It's friggin' _grave robbing_!"

"Whatever it takes," Jim said with finality. "Do you care to help me out, at least?"

"I'm not touching that thing. Not even getting anywhere _near_ it."

Sylvia spoke from the sidelines: "I'll help."

She shrugged off her coat, handing it to Harvey, who gladly took it and preferred to be a coat rack than to dare disturb the dead.

After Jim broke the lock, he and Sylvia moved the stone lid with equal measure. Sylvia brushed her hands on the lap of her pants after, glancing inside to see a skeleton, holding a beautiful sword. Along with this weapon, senior Galavan (or Dumas) was buried with what appeared to be a music box, a few jewels, and a crown that bore tiger eye rock-stones.

"It was said to be Azrael's sword, up until the end." Tabitha narrated, looking at the sword with a loving gaze.

"He died?" Jim asked.

"No. He disappeared. Azrael is thought to be immortal. Or as the stories say."

"That's all they are though, right?" said Harvey uncertainly. "'Stories'."

Sylvia sat on the edge of the burial box, saying, "If I took any event that happened in Gotham and told it to anyone that wasn't living within a country mile of this city, that's what they'd think it was: a story. 'Former Mayor Comes Back to Life' would make the Top 100 Best-Selling Novels."

"Would you be serious for a moment?" Harvey snapped.

"In fact, this whole thing would be a great episode for Tales of The Crypt. You know, since we're literally standing in one."

"Vee…." Jim sighed, looking at her tiredly.

"Just being candid."

"You're being disrespectful."

"We are desecrating, and literally robbing a grave as we speak, and _I_ am being disrespectful?" Sylvia questioned skeptically. "Please."

Jim rolled his eyes and then slowly pried the sword from the grandfather's hands. Admiring it, he uttered, "It _is_ beautiful."

" _I'll take that."_

Sylvia, Harvey, Tabitha, and Jim all startled to see a man dressed in the leather garb and wearing a metal-like helmet standing in the middle of the entrance to the crypt.

And then everyone reacted: Jim quickly tossed Tabitha the sword, while pulling out his gun; Sylvia snatched the gun nestled between the waistband of her jeans and her shirt, cocked it and pointed it at 'Azrael' while Harvey, who was stuck at the front lines, was thrown out of the way, and tumbling on the stone-cold floor.

Then it became a fire fight, with Sylvia and Jim shooting bullets, all of which were deflected or missing Galavan. Like a shadow, it was as though all the ammo was phasing through him or maybe he wasn't feeling any pain. Either way, the what-could-have-been-a-man advanced towards Jim, and within seconds of the encounter, Jim was thrown over a tombstone.

Then he came towards her.

And her gun was out of ammo.

"Well, I'll be a fucking—ergghh!" She managed and was cut off before Galavan grabbed her throat with a single hand, wrapping his fingers around her neck and hoisting her in the air; her feet left the ground.

"My quarrel is not with you," He said with a voice that reminded her of a machine.

"You're trying….to kill...my brother," Sylvia said with a strangled voice. "So your…quarrel… _is with me_!"

He threw her two burial crates away from him, and she grunted with the impact, feeling her spine strike the stone wall. It wasn't the best feeling in the world, but it could have been much worse. Shaken, she looked up to see Galavan stride towards Jim, picking him up by the shoulders and then burrowing punches into Jim like no tomorrow as he said, "JAMES GORDON: Time. To. Die!"

With one heavy punch after another that made Sylvia cringe, Galavan punched Jim, then threw him again. This time, his body went out the door.

"Oh, god! Jim!" Sylvia called worriedly, running after him.

And soon after, the door close behind her. It slammed shut!

"Tabitha!" Sylvia shouted. She grabbed the door, trying to pry it open, but it didn't budge. "Tabitha, what the fuck do you think you're doing! HE'S NOT YOUR BROTHER!"

Then she stopped for a second.

Why was she trying to go back for a woman that killed her own mother-in-law? That didn't make any sense.

Sylvia's hand dropped from the door. If Tabitha wanted to die trying to bring her brother back to whatever life he had, let her. She had to make sure Jim was alright!

She bent down to stoop by his side.

"Jim! Jim!" She said firmly, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. "I know you're not dead, you idiot! Wake the fuck up!" She slapped him once. "WAKE UP!" Then twice.

"Ow! What the hell, Vee! Stop hitting me!" Jim said, pushing her away from him. "What—where's Azrael?"

"He's not real. Galavan, on the other hand, _is_ real. And that fucking bitch just locked herself inside that tomb _with_ him! Great idea, bringing _her_ along!"

"We have to get in there!"

"I know! That's why I've been trying to wake you up!"

Jim stood, followed soon after by his sister, and he tried opening the door.

"I tried that!" Sylvia snapped. "Don't you think I would have?"

"Well, I didn't know. We have to find something to open it."

"The crow bar's inside."

"You don't know how to pick a lock?"

"It's a fucking door handle—what the hell am I supposed to _pick_!" Sylvia shouted incredulously. "I'm not a goddamn locksmith."

"Then break the door in."

"That's _your_ job, Jim. You're the fucking cop!"

"Well, step back then."

Sylvia dramatically emphasized the importance of giving him space, sarcastically taking three large steps back while Jim sent her a look of derision. With two strong kicks to the door, Jim broke in, only to get brutally pushed to the side by Galavan as he strode past them.

When they'd been pushed to the side, Jim had hit his head none too gently against the corner of the burial box while Sylvia fell over a body, lying on the floor, bleeding.

 _Bleeding_?

"What the…." Sylvia mumbled, lifting her hands to see blood on them. It was only then when she realized who she had fallen on and why. "Tabitha?"

Tabitha sent her a leering glance but that's all she could muster. Jim joined Sylvia on the other side of the bleeding woman, taking Miss Galavan's hand. Running up to help was Harvey, who looked equally concerned for all three of them—at least he didn't mind being in a crypt so much now. He had a phone pulled out, speaking to the GCPD on the other line.

"This is Bullock. I need back-up in the Gotham Cemetery. Galavan's in the wind…again. I need an ambulance. Now!"

"I'm sorry…." Tabitha said through a strained voice. "I'm sorry…."

"For what?" Jim asked.

"I made him remember."

"Remember what?"

"Bruce." Tabitha grunted. Panting, she uttered, "'Death to the Son of Gotham'."

The look on Jim's face scared Sylvia more than what Tabitha had said.

"Stay with her," Jim ordered. "I'm going to find Bruce."

"Jim—" Sylvia began, standing.

"Stay with her—"

"Harvey can stay with her!" Sylvia snapped. "I'm coming with _you_!"

"It's too dangerous! You'll get killed!"

"I'm _always_ in danger, and you're out of your mind if you think I'm going to let you take on Galavan by yourself!" Sylvia shouted.

"I wouldn't argue with her," Harvey warned.

"I know." Jim grumbled. Without another second's consideration, he said, "Fine! Come with me!"

Sylvia and Jim ran out of the tomb with Harvey telling Tabitha, "It'll be okay, it'll be okay."

Now in Harvey's police car, Sylvia was driving while Jim dialed the number for the Wayne Manor. Sylvia was a mad, crazy driver, but she was _good_ ; she ran all the lights, shot through stop signs, but dodged any and every car that nearly T-boned them. As good as a driver she was, Jim still was cautious, holding onto the 'oh shit' handle occasionally when the close calls came too close for comfort.

"Come on, come on," Jim grumbled.

"No answer yet?"

"None—oh wait..." Jim said, hopeful.

Someone picked up.

"Where's Bruce?"

"Alfred picked up?" Sylvia questioned, concerned.

Jim nodded in answer to her inquiry.

"Alfred, do you know where Bruce is?….Where in the city….All right, well, we need to find him; Galavan could be coming after him….He _was_ after me; Tabitha must have jogged his memory, reminded him of his original mission: Kill Bruce Wayne."

"What a marvelous mission at that," Sylvia said resentfully. "What that poor boy ever did to _him_ is beyond my understanding."

"No, no, you stay there in case Bruce comes home," Jim told Alfred, glancing at Sylvia irritably. "Where's the last place you saw him in the city?"

"Probably in an alley."

"Collins and Delaney," Jim repeated as Alfred informed him.

"Pretty much an alley."

"Vee, shut up! No, Alfred—no, Sylvia's with me."

"Tell him I said 'hi'."

Jim rolled his eyes.

"We're going to try to look for Bruce there. Until then, be safe."

There was a received message of doing the same and then Jim hung up, shooting a hard look at her.

"You didn't tell Alfred I said 'hi'." Sylvia noted she saw Jim's frown. "You're irritated with me, aren't you?"

"How'd you guess."

"Well, aside from your occasional frustrated looks, I couldn't figure. Care to explain?"

"You choose the worst times to be funny."

"Well, at least I make an effort at humor. What are you doing to help the situation? Skulking about?" Sylvia said, twisting her face to look like a depressed, erratic teenager. "What good has that ever done?"

"Forget timing—you were provoking Tabitha earlier."

"She provoked me first."

"When?"

"Honestly, any time I see her." Sylvia admitted. "Her very existence gives me the symptoms that are not unlike the bubonic plague. And she's provoked me _plenty_ of times since we had shown up to her place to demand her help."

"I understand 'Pigeon' is what Oswald calls you—"

"You're goddamn right!" Sylvia said hotly. "And only _he_ is allowed to call me that. No one else!"

"Tabitha's only doing it to get under your skin."

"Don't think I know that, do you?" Sylvia spat. "I know she says it to get under my skin. She's practically a leech by now—but I can't help it. Just because I know she's doing it doesn't make me any less inclined to rip her lungs out when she does it."

Jim sighed, "Well, she's going to be in the hospital now. Does that make you feel any different?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because _I_ didn't put her there," Sylvia said dangerously. "Now if I had been the one to cause her that pain, I'd probably feel a little better about her condition, would I not?"

"You're about to—"

"I saw the sign, I saw the sign, just let me find a place to park."

Sylvia chose the alley itself to park, and she glanced around.

"I don't see Bruce or any characters from a story jumping and slaughtering about. Perhaps we should try a different alley?"

"No. Just go to the Manor."

"Roger that!" Sylvia put the car in reverse, floored the gas until the back of the vehicle struck the alley wall, jacked the stick into drive, and gunned it down the street with its rear end fishing left and right until it straightened out completely.

As she did, Sylvia ordered Jim to get her phone out of her coat.

"Who are you calling at this hour?" Jim questioned.

"Back up," She answered briskly, grabbing the phone from him. She hit the number-one speed dial. It only rang a few times before the other line picked up.

" _Pigeon?"_

"It's me," Sylvia said quickly. "Oz, I know where Galavan is."

"Where?"

"Wayne Manor. Galavan's there—He's trying to kill Bruce. Jim and I are en route. I don't know if I'm going to be able to take this fucker down with just guns alone; We've shot him—god, I don't know _how_ many fucking times, but he's not dead _yet_."

"How long until you're there?"

"Twenty minutes on an atlas, but I can there in less than ten." Sylvia said, baring her teeth as she accidentally mounted a curb. "Goddamn it! Did I just pop a tire?!"

"No! You're fine, just keep driving!" Jim quipped.

"I just want you to know that if I don't make it out of this, you'll kill the bastard—and you'll make sure he _stays_ dead." Sylvia said, mentally slapping herself when her voice came out painfully desperate.

It took less than five minutes to get to the Wayne Manor, even though it had been 20-minute drive. Wasting no time in saying her good-byes, Sylvia hung up.

"There's a .44 in the glove compartment." Jim said quickly before hopping out of the car; Sylvia grabbed it before following him closely. Just outside the gate was Galavan and Bruce Wayne, who was on his knees, struggling to get that last bit of air until Galavan finally let him go.

He was going to kill the child with a straight bullet to the eyes.

Before Galavan could execute him, Jim raised his gun and shot bullet after bullet into him. Sylvia ran past Galavan, grabbed Bruce's arm and pulled him out of the line of fire, meeting Alfred at the car, which had evidently been used to farm Galavan down until it didn't.

"Sylvia—"

"Keep your head down, Bruce!" Sylvia shouted, pushing the boy to Alfred, who, with relief, took him into his arms. The three of them knelt down against the car, watching Jim pull the trigger almost ten times, and Galavan take each bullet until no bullets were left.

And he was down.

Sylvia stood and met Jim at Galavan's wayside.

"Is he dead, do you think?" She asked uncertainly.

"Normally, I'd say 'yes', but now I'm not so sure."

Sylvia cocked the .44.

"What the hell are you doing?" Alfred asked.

"Making sure." She answered, before pointing the barrel at Galavan's body and pumping five more rounds into him.

At first, it didn't move.

"I think he's dead now, dear." Alfred offered.

And then it did. He stood up.

Jim took his gun out and pulled the trigger. Nothing came out. Sylvia sighed, and gave him a look.

"And this is why we check to make sure the dead people are _really_ dead, boys." Sylvia grumbled.

"Aren't you going to shoot him, then!"

"How the fuck can I do that, Alfred, if I don't have any ammo left!" To prove a point, Sylvia pulled the trigger and nothing came out of her gun either.

"Let me see that!" Jim snapped, grabbing her gun.

"You don't think I know how to shoot a fucking _gun_!" Sylvia retorted.

"Maybe it's jammed—"

"—It's not _jammed—_ "

"—You never know—"

"—I'm not a fucking kid with a fucking gun, Jim. I know it's not fucking jammed, and I _know_ it's empty!" Sylvia said hoarsely.

Galavan started stepping towards them.

"You want to insult me right before we get murdered?" Sylvia said hotly. "How _not_ unlike you, James Gordon!"

Jim aimed the gun at Galavan, like it would magically reload. At the same time, Alfred stood in front of Bruce while Jim put an arm in front of Sylvia as though these two loving barriers would shield them from any harm that Galavan would later inflict.

"You should know by now, Jim, that bullets can't kill this monster!"

Jim lowered his gun slowly while Galavan turned to face the owner of the voice, although Sylvia already knew who its owner was as she was grinning widely from ear-to-ear.

Standing with an umbrella in hand, and a smile on his face was Oswald. He clicked the tip of the umbrella on the pavement before lifting it up pointedly, adding, "My last one got stuck in your throat; I'm thinking of shoving this one somewhere else."

Warily, Galavan raised his sword to Oswald's level.

Unaffected by it, Oswald addressed Jim: "A little tip for next time. Always bring the right tools for the job. See you in Hell, Theo."

Advancing on Oswald's left was Butch, holding a rocket launcher. Oswald in his own strolling fashion stepped aside; Sylvia, Jim, and Alfred simultaneously took Bruce and moved out of the way as Butch armed his large weapon, and launched a rocket at Galavan.

After the big boom, what was left of Galavan was now crumpled, flaming pieces on the pavement. Sylvia squeaked and ran to Oswald, happily hugging him around the middle.

Butch glanced at Sylvia warily, uncomfortable. With working with Tabitha beforehand and now his lady love being put in the hospital, and having partnered with Oswald, Butch seemed uncertain as to where he stood where Sylvia was concerned.

She gave him a once-over but said nothing of fact.

"Coming back?" Sylvia asked Oswald hopefully, referring to his return as Gotham's Kingpin.

"Oh, I'm coming back. But not to Falcone's mansion. But _mine_."

"That's a wonderful idea."

Oswald smiled at her: "I thought you would think so." Then, to Jim, he said, "You're welcome, by the way."

After saying so, Sylvia walked back with him to the car, leaving Jim, Bruce, and Alfred all looking at each other with a mixture of relief, confusion…but mostly relief.

Relief that the monster tormenting Gotham was dead, and would never return.

However, unknown to Bruce, Alfred, Sylvia and Oswald, and the GCPD, the madness of Gotham had only just begun.

Author's Note: This is the fourth installment finished. If you liked this, I think you'll like the next sequel. It's called "Somewhere Only We Know". See you on the other side :P 


	7. Somewhere Only We Know (Part 1 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the fifth installment of this story :) 
> 
> Highlights: Sylvia and Alfred Pennyworth team up to save Jim, Bruce, and Lucius Fox from Hugo Strange; Sylvia earns a moniker for her reputation in the streets as well as a performer; Sylvia tries to navigate Barbara Kean's bold advances as well as her own attraction to her; Jim and Sylvia's mother's disappearance is explained; Ivy Pepper is a spy; Demetri's allegiance is revealed and he makes an effort to endear himself to Oswald and Sylvia; Oswald enlists help from an old friend as he pursues his mayoral campaign; and Sylvia and Oswald prepare to become parents. XD 
> 
> As before, trigger warnings and the like are placed at the beginning of applicable chapters.

Title: **Somewhere Only We Know**  
  
Total chapters: 36, Words: 144,048

**Chapter 1: Making Peace**

Tabitha was in the hospital.

Even after she had been brutally stabbed in the gut by her brother, she had managed to stay alive; Harvey Bullock had called an ambulance and she was rushed to Gotham General. The medics had managed to stabilize her, but soon after, her health had quickly deteriorated—and she was currently lying in bed, in a coma.

Normally, a nurse would come in, check on Tabitha's condition, make very little notes of improvement, and wouldn't return again until the next hour to do the exact same thing. Sitting across from Tabitha in a low, arm chair was Butch. Every hour a nurse would come alone. Every day passed like any other.

One day, he'd been relaxed (for the most part) until the same nurse came into the room, accompanied by an unexpected visitor: Sylvia Cobblepot.

Immediately, Butch stood, pulled out his loaded .44, cocked it, and aimed the barrel straight at her. The nurse, stricken with uncertainty and surprise, put her hands to her mouth, gasping. Sylvia, on other hand, had little to no reaction.

"Calm down, Butchy." Sylvia said flatly, gesturing to him. "I'm not here to kill your lady love. Nurse" (the nurse quickly met her gaze) "would you kindly?"

The nurse excused herself.

Sylvia stood at the foot of Tabitha's bed, looking over the young woman with little interest while Butch kept the gun aimed at her, more or less as a threat.

He warned, "If you touch her…."

"You'll kill me, I got it." Sylvia returned, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. "I told you. I'm not going to kill her. Even if I did end her life, it would be anticlimactic. She wouldn't know the difference. And that wouldn't give me any sort of satisfaction."

Butch measured the weight of her words before sheathing his loaded weapon, noticing how less uptight she appeared, which had been a considerable change since he last saw her.

After Oswald Cobblepot was admitted to Arkham, he was brainwashed by Strange. His rehabilitation had incidentally led to Oswald and Sylvia's separation in marriage. Vowing to keep his kingdom under her control in any case he decided to 'wake up' and remember who he was and what she meant to him, Sylvia had taken over the Underworld, despite her reluctance to rule a kingdom she had never wanted. In doing so, she batted off anyone who attempted to take the kingdom away from her, including Tabitha and Butch on two different occasions, and a young man who was the Heir to the Anderson Family….that was until Sylvia made an example of him.

Sylvia was naturally more fiery, impulsive, and more sadistic than her counterpart. Being the primary ruler, that part of her personality had—in some ways—calmed down in order to allow for patience, maturity, and logical thinking to grow. In more ways than one, she wasn't the same person she used to be.

And with good reason: she had many burdens to bear, and while Oswald was gone—she carried the burden alone…. well, for the most part. She had one other loyal soldier.

A soldier by the name of James Gordon, who was also her brother, one year older than she. In likeness in temper and combat, as well as in their appearances, they could have appeared identical if not for Sylvia's bright ginger-colored hair, a trait she had inherited from their mother.

It wasn't uncommon to hear Sylvia and Jim argue all the time. They stood on opposite ends where the law was concerned, but as the monsters in Gotham became weirder and more supernatural, it was becoming inherently obvious that the line of right and wrong was never so black and white. As Sylvia always said, 'it's blue, green, purple, and lots and lots of red'.

Sylvia somehow managed to become involved in his life on a weekly basis, whether that meant getting neck-deep in dangerous affairs or assisting him and Harvey Bullock with their ongoing investigations. After many months of denying it, he'd finally admitted that he needed her more than she needed him.

Taking all of this into consideration, it went without saying that Sylvia rarely took a Mental Health day.

After murdering his stepfamily, and mourning the loss of his late father, Oswald Cobblepot had come back and took over in ruling the empire. It was also around that time that Butch joined Penguin in defeating Azrael (AKA Theo Galavan), killing him once and for all.

While he'd been working for Penguin since then, Butch hadn't seen much of Sylvia, owing to the fact that she had taken more than a couple Mental Health days to decompress. After not seeing her for a week, Butch took in Sylvia's appearance.

She was wearing a Gothic's style of fish net stockings; leather black, three-inch boots; a low-V-neck blouse the color of blood, the sleeves created a criss-cross weave with the hem ending at her elbows. Fingerless gloves cradled her hands. The look combined with the heavy, black winged eyeliner and silver eyeshadow gave Sylvia the look of a very exotic raven. The only bright color that caught the eye was in her dark auburn hair, which had a single streak of bright baby blue.

"You look…." Butch began, but he stopped in speech. He wasn't certain what he might have started to say. Was he giving her a compliment or about to insult her? Either way, he didn't finish as she interrupted him with a wave of her hand.

"I didn't really come here to have a chat," Sylvia said, walking past Tabitha's bed and meeting him in the center of the room.

"If you didn't come to kill her," Butch said coolly. "Or to talk, why are you here?"

"To make peace."

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, you heard me." Sylvia said calmly. "We've had our ups and downs, especially where _she_ is concerned…." (Her eyes shot to Tabitha indicatively and returned to Butch). "Despite _that…._ " (her eyes briefly closed as though she was acquiring more self-control) "….I'd like to think we could put the past behind us, considering that you and I have known each for a little while."

"I'd say that's an understatement, Liv." Butch chuckled, raising his eyebrows impressively.

"Well, it remains. I mean, look at the facts. You were Fish Mooney's constant, then Victor's project" (Butch twitched involuntarily at the flashback of those bad days) "and then you were Oswald's reluctant stooge. During those days, I'd like to think you and I had a certain type of friendship."

"I figured that friendship hadn't changed."

"Well, it did the night your little girlfriend stabbed Gertrud in the fucking back," Sylvia said, her lip curling in spite. "But then again, I shouldn't really blame you for that one. After all, Tabitha was the one who held the knife."

"Yeah…."

"But you were also working for Galavan."

"I didn't have a choice in that one. They fixed me."

"I'll give you that. They worked on you for a good while." Sylvia said, granting leniency. Then her tone suddenly sharpened: "But you _chose_ to be Tabitha's partner. Not to mention you tried to take the empire away from me… _twice_."

As she talked, Sylvia had slowly moved closer to Butch, who proudly stayed quite still. She now stood face-to-face with him, although, due to their height difference, she was at least a foot and a half shorter than he. In spite of her small stature, she commanded an intimidating presence and Butch was careful not to give the impression that he was challenging her status.

"So what's your point?" Butch said carefully.

"You're useful," Sylvia said bluntly. "Not your _mind_ so much…but where muscle and brawn are concerned, you are, at least."

"Strike a man when he's down, huh?"

"I could be a lot more condescending if I wanted."

"I have no doubt about that."

"I'll get straight to the point. You're working for Penguin, are you not?"

"I guess I am."

"I'll need more of a confirmation than that."

"Tabitha's down for the count, Liv..."

"That much is true. She _is_ down for the count," Sylvia agreed too happily, smirking at Tabitha's incapacitated state. "But not a confirmation of your loyalty does that make."

"What do you want from me?"

"I told you what I want."

"Did Penguin put you up to this?"

"Put me up to what?"

"This visit."

"No, I came on my own." Sylvia returned calmly. "And what I want from you, Butch, is an honest answer. When Oswald told me that you joined him, I thought he was fucking kidding. When he was serious, I had to come down here, find out for myself. I want to make sure that you're not trying to weasel out a way to undermine him."

"Yes..."

"Yes what?"

"I'm working for Penguin."

"Mmm." She sounded unconvinced.

"You don't believe me?" Butch asked—he wouldn't admit it aloud, but he was offended.

"You could say that."

"After everything you've done, Liv, there'd be no way I would try to go against you. You don't have to prove anything to _me_. Trust me."

"Hm. And what if Tabitha wakes up? Are you going to sequester yourself to her, and betray my husband a second time?"

"The first time wasn't really my fault."

"No, you're right—Galavan scrambled your brain, and Tabitha was the spatula." Sylvia conceded, smirking in spite of herself. "I'll give you that. But there's no more brainwashing you, and there's no excuse that would save you from me killing you if you were to betray him again. So, I'll ask again. And this time, please be forward: _Are_ you working for Penguin?"

"Yes, I am."

"Do you work for Tabitha?"

"No…."

"Or anyone else?"

"No."

Sylvia's stern expression softened, and the corner of her mouth tugged upward.

"Good to hear it." She congratulated, offering a genuine smile to him.

"Joining up to kill Azrael…." Sylvia sighed, placing her hand on the back of Butch's arm chair, saying, "I couldn't think of a better way to restart a business relationship. That certainly makes things even between you and Penguin, I imagine."

"Did he say that?"

"Not in so many words."

"What about you and me?" Butch asked.

"What _about_ you and me?"

"Are we square?"

Sylvia sighed, "You and I have history. By that standard, I think we should be fine. Just as long as you behave yourself if ever _this_ thing" (She gestured to Tabitha) "decides to open its eyes."

Butch frowned: "You're not going to walk in and kill her when she wakes up, are you?"

"Killing someone just when they're waking up from a coma? That's hardly sporting. What kind of person do you think I am?" Sylvia chortled, feigning hurt, grinning from ear-to-ear.

"I don't know, but that chuckle isn't really reassuring."

"Trust me, Butch. I wouldn't harm a single hair on her pretty little head."

As a gesture of openness and honesty, Sylvia walked over to Tabitha's bed, patted the woman's forehead with a softness that only a mother could present, and then smiled lovingly at Butch.

"Unless Oswald tells me I can," She confessed darkly. "Currently, he's the _only_ reason why this bitch is still alive."

Butch would have come to Tabitha's defense, but seeing as Sylvia was behaving and doing nothing too violent, he let that slide.

A nurse came by to record the stats. During this time, Sylvia and Butch were silent. When the nurse left, Butch turned completely to Sylvia.

"Why did you come here?"

"Weren't you listening?" She said pointedly. "I came by to settle things."

"But why here, to the hospital? You couldn't have waited until I got home?"

"You've been spending every night here on that chair, Butch. I would have been waiting for only god knows how long to have this conversation with you if I tried waiting at _your_ place. For all I know, you'd probably have tried avoiding me."

Butch nodded, supposing that to be true. He cared to note that Sylvia's eyes were like that of a hawk's as she stared at Tabitha's sleeping body. One could only imagine the horrid images flashing through her mind.

"Galavan's dead." Butch said conversationally, letting out a quiet sigh. "That should make living in Gotham a little easier."

"Until another psycho decides to wreak more havoc on the city." She reminded, sitting on an arm of the chair as Butch sat on the edge of Tabitha's bed.

"Well, before that, we'll get some quiet time."

"I don't much care for the silence."

"Too peaceful?"

Sylvia cocked an eyebrow at him.

"You know, contrary to what you may think of me, I _am_ someone who likes a little peace. But silence—that moment where everything is still and quiet….in that kind of silence and shadow, that is where the darkest of minds plan and the seediest of freaks grow."

"That's poetic."

"Thank you, I made it up on the spot." Her affect became serious as she added, "The world is full of monsters."

"Most of it seems to generate in the Narrows."

"The Narrows is just a pipeline. Gotham is the root of all madness."

"It never used to be this crazy."

"I remember. But the world is changing."

"Are we?"

"Are we what?"

"Changing too?"

"We're changing every day." Sylvia exhaled, sliding off the arm of the chair. "You, me…Even Sleeping Beauty, here. We're changing every day. Some of us—not for the best."

They were quiet for a moment. In that time, Sylvia observed her fingernails, polished midnight blue.

"I really considered you a friend," Butch said suddenly, making her look at him, startled.

"I'd say you were mine as well. Intentional or not, you proved to be someone I could trust. Until you and little Miss Thang became an item."

"She's not that bad."

"She stabbed my mother-in-law in the back."

"She didn't have much of a choice."

"What, because Galavan was her boss?" Sylvia said cynically. " _Please_ …She had a choice. She didn't want to release Gertrud—she wanted to have her cake and eat it too. I say she got the whole bakery: she made my husband miserable, pissed me off, and got rid of a witness all in one go."

"She's changed." Butch defended Tabitha. "She's not the same person…."

"Don't waste your time," Sylvia scoffed. "The woman I see and the woman _you_ love are the _same_. Now, despite what she has done, I might have been able to get over everything but she killed the only mother figure I had."

"Penguin killed Fish. _She_ was like a mother to you."

"Yeah, until she stabbed me in the neck and carved a fish into my skin—how _motherly_. Fish wasn't the same person as Gertrud; Fish _deserved_ to be thrown into the river after what she did to me, to my family. I was happy when Oswald killed her. Gertrud was sweet, affectionate, and she never did a bad thing to me, or ever spoke a word against me—Gertrud didn't deserve to die."

Butch was out of excuses. He pressed his lips tightly together, uncertain as to what to say to make things a little less tense. Sylvia crossed her arms.

"On some level, I miss her. Fish, I mean. I'd always been mischievous as a kid; but if it wasn't for Fish, I wouldn't have known how to be a real criminal. In some ways, she _was_ a mother—I can give her that much credit. But she was more of a Tiger mom, than anything."

"Yeah. She was hard to impress."

"And hard to please."

"No kidding," He laughed.

An awkward moment of silence intervened, during which Butch tried to pick nonexistent lint off the seat of his pants and Sylvia looked at the clock, but not really seeing the time.

"She loved you, you know," Butch said quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"She loved you. Like a daughter."

"Tough love."

"Yeah, but she really loved you." He insisted.

"Yeah, and how did she show it?" Sylvia responded coldly. "A mother forgives a child for her transgressions, you know. And how did she forgive me? She carves a fish into my neck. She stabs Oswald's hand with a fucking broach pen. And she strung up my husband, my brother, and Harvey Bullock like three people getting ready to be hung on the gallows. And when she and Maroni were about to kill Falcone and the others, where was I? I can tell you where. In a fucking janitor closet, thanks to you."

"I was following orders."

" _Her_ orders—"

"I told you I was sorry about that."

"Well, the King's Men and Horses said sorry when they couldn't figure out how to fix an egg, but that didn't put Humpty Dumpty back together again, did it?" Sylvia returned sarcastically.

Butch cleared his throat uncomfortably. She certainly could make a man feel like he was treading on egg shells.

"She still loved you." He persisted. "Maybe not in the way a mother would love her daughter, but I know it."

Sylvia crossed her arms in a pout: "She may have, but her death was no less deserving."

"I miss those days. You know, back when all we had to worry about was Falcone and Maroni having it out at each other."

"Back when Oz was managing a restaurant and I was a fucking shift lead?"

"You gotta admit, those were good days—compared to what we've dealt with in the past couple of weeks."

"Cards on the table, Butch: I try to _forget_ those days."

"I don't mean the days when you were working for Maroni." Butch winced a little as he said it. "You deserve a lot of what happened to you, but that incident with Maroni's men….I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

"I still have dreams about that. Nightmares, you know," Sylvia muttered, glancing at Butch who met her eyes sympathetically.

"Do you?"

"Every time I go to sleep," She said darkly. "I remember Mack—that fucking yellow Spongecake. I remember what it felt like to be powerless, unable to stop it…unable to stop _him_. It's a defenseless feeling, you know, being unable to stop someone from hurting you. Even though I know I killed him, that he died, that I made him suffer before he did…when I go to sleep, and I dream, it's like it doesn't matter. It happens all over again...when I wake up, realize that it's over, I breathe, I get over it, and I start my day…just so I can fall back to sleep and do it all over again."

Butch frowned. He stood, and walked over to her.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Sylvia asked suspiciously.

Without saying anything, Butch put his arms around her. He hugged her. Sylvia welcomed it, although she didn't hug him back. He took a step back from her, sending her a supportive smile.

"Something happens every night though," She said encouragingly. "I tell myself that it makes me stronger for surviving it. At least, it keeps me from driving myself completely insane."

"And you have Oswald."

"Yes. I have Oswald." There was a twinkle in her eye as she said it.

"Does he still feel guilty for what happened?"

"I can't tell." Sylvia confessed, smiling a little. "We've ghosted over the topic a few times, but I can't tell if he still does. I told him not to worry about it."

"He's more protective of you since then."

"No doubt he is."

"I am too…."

"Are you? I couldn't tell. You fawn over Tabitha so much; I can't imagine you still have room in your heart for little old me."

"Despite what happened between us in the past, I still have a soft spot for you, Liv. Even if it's smaller than my fingernail."

"How sweet." Sylvia returned sardonically. "I never knew you cared so much for me."

"It's the reason why I persuaded Tabitha not to come for you a third time."

"Yeah, because the first two times you tried taking over my empire was not enough."

"We wouldn't have taken over."

" _She_ would have. She was greedy."

"After being undermined by people so many times, can you blame her?"

"If she seeks retribution for how her brother treated her, that's not my problem. Instead of killing Galavan—like I would have if he was _my_ brother—she decided to remind Galavan of who he was. By the way, _she_ is the reason Bruce Wayne nearly died that night."

"She didn't mean to do it."

"Coming to her defense, as usual."

"Like how you defend Penguin."

"It's easy for me to defend him," Sylvia countered. "He didn't kill Gertrud."

"He's killed plenty of people."

"That he has. But so have I. You, me, Tabitha, Oswald—we're all just a bunch of little sinners. Personally, I wouldn't be too occupied with what Oswald or I have done in the past. If I were you, I'd be more concerned about what you did to Barbara."

"I didn't do anything to her."

"You kicked her out."

"She was crazy!"

"So?" Sylvia questioned, gesturing to him. "She just got out of Arkham. What do you expect? Plus, she has a certificate of sanity. That's something to consider."

"I don't know how—Strange is just releasing people left and right. You think he'd be a little more particular."

"You give that hack a lot more credit for being sane than I do."

Butch backtracked to his earlier point: "Barbara's fine. She'll be okay."

"Yeah, she will be. She's been living with Oswald and me for the past two weeks."

"And how's that working?"

"Like a charm," Sylvia said sarcastically.

"So, you're getting tired of her too." Butch said, smirking at her.

"You know, it was one thing when she wasn't fucking crazy. Back when she was engaged to my brother, it was easier to tolerate her." Sylvia said almost lovingly, looking up at the ceiling. "Now it's like living with a hyper, Homecoming Queen. Everything has to be this way, that way, this, that, and the other. She likes interior decorating—I've been fine with her rearranging the mansion to fit her tastes, but it's starting to disrupt my day-to-day activities."

"Such as?" Butch said humorously.

"She moved the couch in the _middle of the night_! I damn near broke my neck just walking through the living room. Hit my foot on the leg of the couch, and tripped over the fucking coffee table."

"It's part of the reason why I kicked her out," said Butch as he took a disposable paper cup from the counter of the sink in the hospital room, and filled it with tap water from the faucet. "But interior design isn't my thing."

"Are you certain of that?"

"I'm pretty certain: never cared much for arranging furniture."

"I'm not talking about _that_. I meant the reason behind kicking her out."

Butch narrowed his eyes at her: "What are you getting at?"

"Well, it's not exactly a secret, Butchy. You, Barbara, Tabitha—the poster peeps of the ménage à trois." Sylvia hummed, smirking wickedly at him. "How did it go? You and Tabitha, then Tabitha and Babs—did you and Babs ever…."

"It was just strictly those two," He said quickly, pointing at Tabitha. "I don't—I wouldn't—"

"Ooh, no need to get all defensive. No one would blame you, you know. Barbara is a very beautiful woman. Once or twice when she was fucking that Montoya cop, I thought about offering my company."

Butch's eyebrows raised curiously.

"Have you ever..?"

"No." Sylvia answered his silent question. "Personally, I haven't. I've been interested, but mildly only. But the matter itself has never been presented to Oswald or me. I mean, even if it was…well, he's not exactly _open_ to sharing me with another person. And I wouldn't like any woman near _him_. I think the only solution if ever the concept of a threesome were to arise would for the third person to be a male."

"Another _man_?" Butch chuckled, shaking his head. "You think Penguin would be _okay_ with that? Seeing you with another guy?"

"Don't know. Never brought it up."

"Got anyone in mind?"

"Are you offering me your company?" Sylvia teased.

Butch quickly turned a shade of bright red, even started sweating a little as he said quickly, "Uh—what-oh no, no, no…."

"Don't think Tabitha would like that?"

"Well, to be quite honest and transparent with you, Liv—I don't want to know—"

"Calm down, man. I'm just playing with you. Settle."

Butch was more than happy to turn the attention on her.

"Do you have anyone in mind if the subject were to come up?"

Sylvia smiled guiltily but she didn't say it.

In all honesty, she and Ed Nygma had this very conversation in the past, back when Ed had confessed his feelings (both sexual and romantic) to her and Sylvia had admitted the same. And while the conversation had led to a dangerous place—and while she was still at odds with the fact that Ed had primarily been responsible for framing Jim and putting him in prison—she still thought of the idea.

The idea of having Oswald, Ed, and herself naked in a bed had been mind-numbing and during nights when Oswald worked late in the office as the Kingpin, discussing matters with the Five Families as well as performing a few duties of his own, Sylvia would lie awake in bed, playing with herself and imagining the three of them entangled under the bed sheets.

"No one in particular," Sylvia said finally, although she felt the heat rising to her face.

At that moment, a nurse came in, jotting down Tabitha's never-changing stats, and then exited the room. Somehow, this provided enough of a segue that Sylvia's embarrassment subsided, giving way to another conversation needing to be had.

"Penguin wants Hugo Strange." Butch said, business-like.

"I am aware that he does. He put Oswald through hell. Myself, included."

"How so?"

"He made Oswald forget who he was," Sylvia said darkly. "I haven't forgiven Strange for doing that. Not to mention the fact that he failed to inform me that he was intercepting all forms of communication between Oswald and me. The fucker made Oswald think he was going through rehabilitation all alone."

"I imagine this is yet another reason you came by? To help Penguin find Strange?"

Sylvia's smile was all the response he needed.

Butch said lightly, "How are we supposed to find Strange."

"Finding Strange is easy. He's locked up in his hospital."

"So, we go through the hospital."

"It'd be easy enough, but he has multiple guards."

"So, we kill them," Butch offered.

"Theoretically, that would work. But there's more to it than you think."

"What's more to it?"

"He's building monsters."

"Monsters?"

"Yes, Butch. _Monsters_. Like Azrael. Like Victor."

"Zsasz?"

"No. _Fries_."

"Fries? He's dead."

"That's what Strange would have you believe," Sylvia mused, as she leaned her back against the wall. "But it's not true."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because my brother saw Fries."

"Jim saw Victor?"

"In the flesh…but Victor isn't what he used to be. He's been walking around in some kind of metal suit, freezing people left and right. Not exactly a lively thing, but he's certainly not dead. And if Mr. Freeze is alive, I certainly believe there will be others coming back from the void as well."

"Who?"

"Who knows. People who are currently dead are as follows: Fish…Jerome Valeska…God forbid any of _them_ come back from the dead."

"So, if Gordon knows Strange is doing illegal stuff, why hasn't Strange been arrested?"

"Strange isn't stupid. He had everything shredded—any and all of the evidence—before my brother and Harvey Bullock could descend on the situation," Sylvia uttered hatefully.

"Victor Fries is only one man. Azrael too—how do you know there are more monsters in the basement?" Butch questioned, confused. "What's your source?"

"Edward Nygma."

" _Who_?"

"Edward Nygma. He used to be the Forensics for the GCPD until he framed Jim for Galavan's death."

"He framed your brother for killing Galavan?"

"Yes, he did."

"I thought _you_ killed Galavan."

"The first time, yes I did." Sylvia confirmed. "But Edward is clever. He framed Jim and got him arrested and put into Black Gate for a time."

"And you visited him?"

"I did."

"Why would you talk to him? Why would you give him the time of day if he hurt your family and you? You just finished telling me how much you want to kill Tabby for doing what she's done to you—for what Fish did—and this is your brother…."

"It's complicated," Sylvia returned unhappily. "If you can't tell, all of my friendships are. With you, with Ed—they're complicated. Particularly with him. And that's not really the point. My point is that I visited him in Arkham. I talked to him. One night, he escaped his cell. He told me that inmates were disappearing down a hallway, never to be seen again. He tracked it, found the door, picked the lock, took an elevator down to the bottom-most floor, and he saw people dead, alive, and the undead. By the time he finished explaining it all to me, he was almost in hysterics. After I calmed him down, he told me that Strange has been making people—creating them back from the dead—and turning them into _thing_ s."

Butch chuckled, "If I didn't know better, I say you like Nygma."

"We're talking about people coming back to life," Sylvia said curtly, "And you want to talk about my relationship regarding Ed?"

"Like I said, if I didn't know you better—"

"—I'd say you know a lot less."

"I'm just saying…Barbara…Oswald…Edward Nygma…it seems you might have a thing for crazies…."

Sylvia bounced herself off the wall. The armchair that Butch had previously occupied was the only barrier between them; Sylvia's hands balanced on one of the arms and she leaned forward.

"I'm _this_ close to pushing you off a goddamn cliff," Sylvia threatened. "So kindly keep your assumptions to yourself, yeah?"

Butch nodded quickly, although his simpering smirk never left his face.

"Oswald isn't crazy. And Edward Nygma _isn't_ a lunatic. He's a genius. They both are. Smarter than you or myself."

"So, Nygma's smart. _He_ put your brother behind bars."

"A crime that he's paying for currently."

"And you're fine with this—you're fine with him framing your brother?"

"Of course, I'm not!"

"But you're still his friend—"

"—On a whim—"

"—You visited him—"

"I came to him for information I knew only _he'd_ have," Sylvia responded hotly. " _Yes_ , he put my brother in jail. _Yes_ , he hurt me in a way that is unforgivable, but he's seeking retribution for it. He's trying to make it up to me. Being locked up in a crazy house pretty much limits his abilities to do it, so I've been giving him a few different options. So far, he has taken each and every one of them, including helping me find out what Strange plans to do with all these fucking Frankensteins."

Butch appeared deep in thought: "How does someone arrest Strange if he got rid of all the evidence?"

"That's a good question," Sylvia muttered. "I have to talk to Jim—he's been trying to go about finding a way inside Arkham Asylum. To find evidence that Strange has locked away."

"He wants Strange too?" Butch asked.

"Yes, but for different reasons."

She didn't bother explaining it, at least not to him.

The truth be told, Jim Gordon was after Strange's secrets ever since he figured out that the doctor was the man known as the 'The Philosopher'. It had only been a nickname, but The Lady claimed the 'Philosopher' had been the one to put the hit out on Thomas and Martha Wayne, sending Matches Malone to do the deed, and orphaning young Bruce one fateful night. After finding out that Strange was dirty, Jim and Harvey Bullock had visited Strange twice; first, it was to find out Strange was dirty, and after finding out he was, the second visit was a raid. The doctor and his assistant, Ms. Peabody, had shredded all incriminating evidence—after, Jim and Harvey had left empty-handed.

While Harvey and Jim wanted justice for what Strange had done, Sylvia wanted to see the Head of Psychiatry locked away for more personal reasons, which included Strange's involvement in causing Oswald and her to separate for a time, as well has having been the primary cause for aforementioned separation….considering the fact that it was Strange's fault for brainwashing Oswald to the point the latter believed he no longer felt that he nor Sylvia were compatible lovers.

Needless to say, Strange had made quite a few enemies.

Whether Jim was going for the third try, Sylvia wasn't certain. She was adamant about helping Bruce find atonement for his parents, but there was a line she had to draw in order to not become so involved in the investigation.

After all, she did have a life that didn't evolve around Jim's antics. _Lean on Vee_ 's still had to be run by someone who knew the club business, and even though she had stepped down from being the One Ruler of the Underworld, she still aimed to be at Oswald's disposal if he needed to fire ammunition.

Oswald had slowly gotten his affairs in order; his power house had become his own Mansion where business was conducted. Occasionally, the former Falcone Mansion was used as Headquarters in order to keep the business matters from infiltrating private moments between Oswald and Sylvia. Otherwise, business was conducted at the Van Dahl mansion.

"Have you heard from Gordon?" Butch asked curiously.

"Not recently." Sylvia returned, chewing on the nail of her pinky nervously. "It has me worried, actually."

"With Gordon being a cop and all," He said good-humoredly, "I figured _he_ would be the more protective one."

"Jim and I are a lot alike. We're both emotionally invested into things. When one becomes obsessed, the other must play the part of the older sibling. Right now, all Jim wants is to find Strange and give him what the psychiatrist deserves, even if it means getting himself into trouble."

"Sounds like a lot of work, looking after Gordon."

"You're right about that."

"So what's the would-be cop up to these days?"

"Last I heard, he was going after Strange a third time. I don't know how he's getting through though; Strange knows his face by now, knows he's a meddlesome guy. Unless they went in by force..."

Her words trailed off, but her eyes suddenly had a brilliant twinkle. Butch could see that whatever it was Sylvia had been pondering on for the last few days had suddenly clicked into place.

"I'll see you later." She said suddenly, turning on her heel and walking out of the room.

"Nice talking to you!" Butch called after her, then turned to Tabitha who was still sleeping in bed. "Between you and me, Tabby—she scares me more than you ever could."

**Chapter 2: Jim Isn't Jim**

Chapter 2: Jim Isn't Jim

Harvey Bullock waited for the Strike Force to go through the gate of Arkham Asylum, and retrieve Jim Gordon. It was almost noon, and Jim hadn't checked in at the time he said he would, and dealing with Strange and whatever Frankensteins the doc had been creating, Harvey imagined the worst.

At first, Harvey had considered calling Sylvia, to bring her in on it.

Now, he was happy he hadn't: Jim was MIA. Boy, would Sylvia tear him a new asshole if she ever found out that Harvey, the acting captain of the GCPD, allowed her brother to walk in and get captured like a bait on a hook. Unwilling to suffer the consequences, Harvey ordered the Strike Force to unleash hell on the Arkham Asylum gate, that was until a voice called out.

" _STAND DOWN_!"

Harvey looked at the walkie-talkie as though he hadn't heard it right.

" _Stand down, officers_!" Jim's voice was heard. " _Stand down. All clear._ "

"All clear?" Harvey repeated incredulously.

" _Yeah, all clear. Sorry to waste your time, Hoss. How about a ride back to HQ?_ "

Harvey wasn't exactly sure just what the hell was happening over there, but he figured he'd find out when Jim came back. When the doors opened, he half-expected that to be him, but he let out a low, painful groan when Sylvia came barging through, loudly stomping up the stairs and standing in front of Harvey, who forced his lips into a half-convincing smile.

"Hey, Liv." He said with less enthusiasm.

"Where's Jim?" She questioned.

"That's… _That_ is a reasonable inquiry."

Sylvia blinked: "What the fuck is wrong with you? Where is he?"

"He's out...and about. How are you doing, Liv? You look good!"

"You're acting weird." Sylvia noted; she looked around, then back at him: "Where's Jim, Harvey? Is he at Arkham?"

"Well, I mean, he _was_."

"What the fuck do you mean by 'was'? Did you seriously let him go in alone?"

"No, _no_ , I didn't." Harvey replied, stepping away from his desk and rounding it to meet her in the center. "Liv, as much as I love talking to you, I'm afraid that this isn't the best time."

"Is it not?"

"Frankly, no."

"Well, _frankly_ , Harvey, I haven't heard from Jim all day. And I know you and him are still trying to get through to Strange. And I don't see him here, so—" Sylvia stopped talking as the doors opened; both she and Harvey saw Jim Gordon strolling in with the other officers of the Strike Force.

Curious to the both of them, they found his 'stroll' a bit out of character, but otherwise, he appeared unharmed. And that suited both of them.

"Jim!" Harvey called, running down the stairs to meet his partner.

Jim curiously looked at him as though he'd never seen Harvey before. Then something seemed to click; he pointed, "Harvey Bullock! Hey, _Harv_!"

Sylvia raised her eyebrows and let out a low whistle. Either Jim had been drinking some heavy booze on his way over here or he was having a time and a half. She casually walked down the stairs, meeting the two detectives halfway.

"Strange is clean?" Harvey questioned, disbelieving. "What happened?"

"Dead end," Jim answered.

"'Dead end'? What do you mean 'dead end'?"

"He's connected."

"So is my mechanic. Who isn't these days?"

"He's connected to people we can't cross." Jim emphasized.

"Like who?"

"You don't want to know. Trust me."

Harvey and Sylvia alike observed Jim. He was abnormally pale; perspiration dotted the lines of his forehead.

"You all right? You look like a sack of fish."

"A small catch of the flu, maybe."

"Well, keep your distance. I'm getting laid this weekend, fingers crossed." Harvey said mischievously, crossing his fingers indicatively, and taking Sylvia's arm. "Come on, Liv—I've got something to show you."

"Does it pertain to you getting laid? If that's the case, I'm fairly certain I don't want to see."

"I'm flattered," Harvey said, smirking. "But that's not it."

"Well, you're flattered, I'm relieved—win-win." Sylvia said, looking at Jim for a second. She approached and he looked her up and down…oddly enough. "Are you sure you're okay, Jimmy?"

A small smile twisted the corner of his mouth as he said, "Never better, Kitten."

Sylvia gave him a look of 'what the fuck'. Then again, she was just happy he was alive and not having been turned into one of Strange's monsters. His overall appearance seemed unharmed, so at least he hadn't been tortured. Still…

"Strange didn't do anything to you, did he? Like psychologically?" Sylvia asked gingerly. She put her hand over his forehead, feeling his temperature.

"Not at all." Jim said, overdramatizing his answer with a large, shit-eating grin.

Frankly, it creeped her out.

"Did he drug you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You're just…you're acting really weird." To prove a point, she looked _him_ up and down, trying to guess why he seemed so off-putting. Aside from being _way_ too happy.

"No drugs, no hugs, nothing in between," Jim appeased, smiling once more.

" _Liv_ …." Harvey said, popping in again.

"I'm coming, I'm coming…." Sylvia reassured. She touched Jim's shoulder; he looked happy about that. "I'll come back and check on you, okay?"

"Sure thing, sure thing!" Jim responded enthusiastically. "Anything you want."

"Riiiight…." Sylvia returned, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

She didn't really want to give him another moment to respond with something else that might goad her suspicions; after all, Harvey had something important to show her.

She followed Harvey into what would have been Captain Barnes' office. In some ways, Barnes was still the captain. But the guy was still in the hospital with a badly stabbed thigh, and Harvey seemed to take up the captain's hat pretty well.

"Look at this." Harvey handed her the latest issue of _Gotham Gazette_ with the news headline that read ' ** _Former Mayor Dead, Alive, Dead again_** '.

"I could have come up with a better title for a heading, but I applaud the writer's humor."

"Hardy-har-har," Harvey chortled, taking the paper and holding it up. "Read the article."

"I'm not reading the _entire_ article."

"Paragraph six, first line."

Sylvia glanced, counted and read, "'GCPD saves Gotham from tyrannical, undead former Mayor, Theo Galavan.'….

"Pretty good, right?"

"That would be pretty good…if it was _true_."

"It _is_ true."

"As according to whom?" Sylvia asked, sitting in the arm chair directly opposite of Barnes' desk; Harvey sat behind it, smiling in spite of himself. "If my memory serves me correctly, Galavan was blown to bits by Butch Gilzean, who was led to the location by Oz. The papers should be thanking _them_."

"Gilzean…." Harvey laughed. "That guy is as useless as a fly trap in a fire."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

"I don't know…I heard one of the younger officers use it and I thought it sounded pretty clever."

"You like the article because it gives credit to the GCPD."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"You never cared if the police got credit for anything; you couldn't even summon a _little_ pride in doing what you do," Sylvia reminded, crossing one leg over the other. Knowingly, she sneered, "It's because you're the acting captain now, isn't it? The GCPD does something, makes you look good, so you wanna take credit for it."

"I'm _the_ Captain. And you'll do well to remember that."

"If the city gave you the key, you'd turn it in a second, wouldn't you?"

"Without hesitation, Little Sister."

Sylvia rolled her eyes dramatically to the ceiling: "I shouldn't be so surprised."

"Who peed in your cereal this morning? Normally, you're pretty easily amused."

"Normally, I am."

"So?" He waved his hand to her, trying to get more information. "Tell big brother Harvey what's wrong. How far do we go back?"

"Too far back."

"Got the wise cracks coming like firecrackers. So, what's eating you?"

"Prior to coming here, nothing really. But..." She hesitated but she glanced outside the window of the door, watching Jim look around as though he'd never been inside the building before.

"You're worried about Jimbo?"

"More than I care to admit."

"Well, there's a reason we call you 'Little Sister' around here. You're his little sister. I imagine you're always worried about him."

"More than usual, I mean. He's acting weird."

"He just got back from Arkham Asylum. You'd be acting weird too…."

"I've _been_ in Arkham, _several_ times—as a guest. I've never acted weird coming out."

"Maybe it's because you talk to a lot of crazies, you're immune to it."

"Pardon?"

Harvey snickered, "Come on, Liv. I _know_ you've been to Arkham, talking to that traitor. How _is_ Nygma? How's he doing?"

"You're more than welcome to poke fun when I have the patience, but right now, I don't." Sylvia said callously.

"Come _on_ , Liv. He _framed_ Jim. I figured after someone did that, you wouldn't spare a minute on them."

"Normally, I wouldn't."

"You got a soft spot for the creep, don't you?"

Sylvia gave him a sour look.

"Don't you fucking pull that kind of hypocrisy on me, especially you above all people. **You** had a thing for _Fish_."

"Yeah, well, that was Fish. We're talking about a guy who likes to talk in riddles—literally—and he killed a brother of ours. Remember Pinkney?"

"I don't, as a matter of fact. He was one of _yours_ , and I can understand the animosity you have for Ed but—"

"—What do you see in him?" Harvey interrupted coldly.

"He's got a lot of potential."

"So does a spot of bacteria on my bathroom floor, but I'm not gonna talk it up like it's all that and a bag of chips."

"You never gave him enough credit."

"Why would I? He murdered one of our brothers, and he put _your_ brother—your real brother—in jail for a crime _you_ committed."

"I know the fucking facts!"

"So why keep visiting that moron—"

"—He's not a fucking moron—"

"—He's a waste of your time—"

"—A waste of your time, but not a waste of _mine_!" Sylvia snapped, standing to her feet so quickly that the chair she'd once occupied had scooted back so hard, the legs had scratched the wooden floor.

Harvey looked up at her, surprised by the outburst of passion. Granted, it might not have been an outburst; her voice had started creeping up in volume, and he'd knowingly hit a nerve.

"You think you have every fucking person figured out, well, you don't." Sylvia said harshly. "If anything, you—and every fucking person in this goddamn building—are the reason Ed ended up the way he did. You undermined every single task he performed, and you've more than once called him a moron."

"I actually only called him a 'dummy'."

"Same fucking thing."

Harvey stood.

"You need to calm yourself down, Liv. What are people going to think if you start defending every wacko, crazy nut job?"

"I don't defend every nut job around here."

"You defend Penguin—"

"—He's my husband—"

"—You're still friendly with Barbara—"

"—Her getting committed isn't relevant to—"

"—And now you're trying to defend Nygma. What does that sound like to you?"

Sylvia shot him a glare worthy of execution as she said through forced calm, "You want to put people down because they don't fit your idea of 'sanity'. Personally, I see more to them—Oswald, Ed, Barbara—they have all potential that _your_ people _consistently_ choose to overlook. That'll be your downfall."

"Mm-hmm…..Mm-hmm, let me ask you this." He hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his pants. "What's your relationship with Ed these days? You know, aside from visiting him in Arkham, and all?"

"What the fuck are you getting at?"

"I mean, you talked to him each time you came to the station. Jim even told me that—for a second—you had something of a couple's date with them."

"It wasn't a couple's date. It was Jim and Lee, and Kristen and Ed."

"Ah, right…Kringle. Now _there's_ a jewel."

"I'm not talking about that right now."

"Well, I am." Harvey debated, smiling. "You and Kristen Kringle didn't get along, I hear."

"She didn't care for my line of work."

"Yeah, I imagine overlooking murders and under-the-desk jobs might have been a little traumatizing for a records custodian."

Sylvia crossed her arms defensively: "Fine. I didn't care for her. But not without reason."

"Why didn't you like her?"

"Am I on trial?"

"Nah." Harvey said, waving his hand. "I just want to know more about you."

"I think you know enough."

"You know what. I really don't think I do."

"You want some satisfaction?"

"What have we been discussing this entire time, huh?"

"Fine. Here it is. I didn't like her so much because she wanted to see one side of Ed, a sliver of it. She wasn't interested in him until those jackasses she was carrying a thing for suddenly vanished. _Then_ she notices him."

"That's another thing," Harvey speculated.

"What other thing?"

"People vanishing. One officer in particular, actually. Officer Dougherty, I mean."

"Yet another pretentious ass."

"Is that all?"

"What else is there?"

Harvey looked at her for a long moment. He leaned over the desk, hands balancing his weight.

"Personally, I'm starting to wonder whether or not you _knew_ Kristen Kringle was dead before the rest of us did. In fact, I can almost bet on it. You _knew_ Kristen was gone, and you _knew_ Officer Dougherty was MIA before the rest of us. I bet my _career_ that Ed told you every little detail. Being his friend and everything, you coulda taken it to your grave. Am I right?"

Sylvia mirrored him, her hands on the desk as well.

"Don't go asking questions if you already know the fucking answers, Harv. It's fucking condescending." She warned.

Harvey smirked.

"You like Nygma, don't you?"

"Of course, I do. He's my friend."

"Even after he framed Jim?"

"Not right after, but yes."

"That's pathetic."

Sylvia shrugged.

"You're probably right. But" Sylvia picked the newspaper up. "…so is pretending that the GCPD got rid of Galavan when, really, you had to rely on a fucking skell to do the job _for_ you."

"Touché." Harvey chuckled, although the smile didn't reach his eyes.

Sylvia smiled back, but it mirrored the same as his.

They backed off on the subject, leaving the office and heading up to the top of the staircase where Jim was sitting as his own desk, drinking a cherry slushy. Sylvia sat on Harvey's desk, looking over different case files that he had been working on.

"What's this one?" Sylvia asked, lifting one of the folders and looking through it briefly.

"Small burglary, someone robbed a pharmacy. Know the guy?"

"You think I know every skell?"

"I say you know about 90% of them."

"I say you're right." Sylvia agreed. She pointed to the file's name. "He works on the docks as a fisherman. He was regularly paid by Maroni, back when the Don was still alive, anyway. Back then, he was pulling about five-grand worth of coke that was shipped between Albuquerque and Gotham. At this point in time, I doubt he's employed anywhere, probably living in the fucking street."

"And you didn't bother to tell Jim and me?" Harvey asked, gesturing to her brother and himself. "That would have been one less skell to worry about."

" _Are_ you worried about him?"

"Nah, not really."

"Then why would I have told you?"

"She's got a point there," Jim chimed in, winking at her.

Sylvia and Harvey exchanged glances, but let that odd gesture go.

"What about this one?" Harvey said, taking a folder from the bottom of the pile and handing it to her. "This guy has been on our list ever since Barnes took the reins."

"'Jack Marson'." Sylvia said, reading the file's name.

"Sound familiar?" Jim asked.

"Not really. If he's a criminal, he's a small one. Or he's just starting. I don't know anyone by that name."

"He robbed a few banks," Harvey informed. "Got a lot of the bankers pissed."

"Why?"

"He robbed _their_ banks. Didn't rob the normal ones."

"We have _normal_ banks?" Sylvia mused.

"The lesser known banks were robbed—not the good ones like Gotham Statutes."

"Any evidence linking it to him?"

"Plenty. Fingerprints, DNA, photos—"

"So what's holding you back, bud?" Sylvia asked, smirking at Harvey. "You've got the evidence—Barnes should've been on this one like a bump on a log."

"We can't find the creep."

"What does he look like?"

Harvey gave a photo to Sylvia, who looked it over. It was black and white, grainy. A typical stock image that could be found on any nanny cam.

"You can't find Jack Marson, because Jack Marson isn't anybody. It's an Alias." She explained, tossing the photo on the desk.

"How do you know? What's his real name?"

"This picture that you have is of Drake Anderson. The fucker recently got a nose job, and he looks a little more different. Different hair cut, different eye contacts—a little cosmetic surgery on the cheekbones…."

"Drake Anderson?" repeated Harvey. "The Anderson's son? The Family?"

"The same. But you won't find him."

"Yeah, because he's dead."

"Yep." Sylvia chirped with a broad smile.

"You killed him, didn't you?"

"Pass GO and collect two-hundred dollars."

Jim looked at her curiously.

It was odd though. Instead of a disapproving shake of the head as Sylvia had expected, Jim looked more or less intrigued, like he was just hearing of Sylvia's long list of crimes for the first time, and he appeared impressed. And how little surprised Harvey appeared to be by Sylvia's lackadaisical attitude of committing such a crime.

"I figured _you_ would go after Anderson," Harvey said, rolling his eyes. "Not that I don't blame you. I never liked him."

"He was a pain in the ass."

"So was Falcone, but I didn't see you go after him."

"He was a different kind of a pain in the ass." Sylvia reminisced. "At least he had some manners."

"Yeah, now we have different pains." Harvey sighed.

"Like Strange."

"Yeah, like Strange." Harvey said, leaning forward at his desk. "Which makes me wonder, Jim. These people to whom Strange is connected, they must have been pretty _heavy_ to make **you** back off, huh?"

"Oh, they're heavy," Jim reassured, flashing Sylvia a crooked smile. Like he was trying to impress her.

"I don't want anything _dangerous_. I just want to be titillated."

"Oh sure," Sylvia mused. " _Everyone_ wants to be titillated."

"Well, not everyone can be immersed in danger like you, Liv."

"I'm not immersed; I'm thriving."

"Like a weed."

"Careful, Harv."

Harvey smirked when Sylvia's tone bordered on dangerous but the small smile she sent him was enough to give him some satisfaction. Knowing that the conversation they had prior to this one had not dampened Sylvia and Harvey's regular back-and-forth was more than reassuring.

"Remember," Harvey said to Jim, "when you called me from the hospital, that time when you had Falcone on the gurney."

"…How could I forget?"

"Remember what I told you? Remember what I said?"

"…I forget…" Jim said seriously, although Harvey seemed gather that was a joke.

"Ha-ha, very funny."

Then something unprecedented happened.

"Gordon!"

Sylvia startled, hearing Alfred's voice. She glanced to see the Wayne's butler running up the stairs, dressed dashingly as always, but looking worried.

"You're back!" He said quickly. "What happened? Where's Master Bruce? Where's Lucius?" His voice rose in volume, as well as concern: " _Have you seen them? Where **are** they_!"

Sylvia glanced uncertainly between Harvey, who appeared confused, and Jim, who looked just as confused. And _that_ made Sylvia's suspicions return.

"Hey, Alfred, take it easy," Harvey assured.

" _Where are they_!"

As though Jim had gotten a social cue, he said promptly, "Alfred…relax. Master Bruce and Lucius are...uh…headed back to Wayne Manor."

"Well, that's a load of hot tosh for starters, isn't it?" Alfred retorted. "I just came back from there."

"What can I tell ya?" Jim said, shrugging. "Maybe they stopped for a snack or something."

Sylvia glanced between Harvey, who now appeared calm, to Alfred, whose world was seemingly crashing down around him, and to Jim, who seemed unaffected by any of it. Feeling like something was off was an understatement for Sylvia as she carefully observed Jim's mannerisms, highly suspecting that Jim was not acting like himself. Maybe Strange _had_ drugged him….

"So what about Strange?" Alfred demanded.

"It's complicated!" Jim responded.

"Well, then, go on! _What_!"

"Complicated _police_ business!"

Alfred stared at Jim as though he'd gone off his rocker. Harvey leaned into Alfred, muttering, "He's got the touch of the flu."

"I'll try calling the Manor…." Alfred suggested.

Harvey and Jim encouraged him to do so. Meanwhile, Sylvia glanced between them. When Alfred left, Sylvia turned to the two detectives.

"What does Bruce have to do with anything?" Sylvia asked Jim.

"Eh….kids today…."

"That's not a satisfying answer."

"Well, it's an answer." Jim said, winking at her.

"You're insufferable. I can't talk to you when you're like this."

"Well, there's other stuff we can do that doesn't involve _talking_." Jim suggested, smirking at her.

She stared at him. So did Harvey.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" Sylvia questioned, stepping away from him. "You're acting so… _weird_."

"The flu will do that." Harvey offered. "One time, my aunt had the flu and she couldn't even remember who I was—she thought I was an old boyfriend. Now, _that_ was an awkward Christmas."

"Ugh, I don't want to know that!" Sylvia scolded. "This is not the time for jokes, Harvey."

"Calm down, Sugar bean." Jim said gently. "This is the _perfect_ time for jokes. People get all stressed in this place; it doesn't really help matters, you know."

"I can't fucking talk to him," Sylvia said irritably. "I'm going to check on Alfred. See if I can't find out what's going on. Harvey, don't you let him out of your sight, okay?"

"Sure thing, Liv."

Sylvia strode away, rolling her eyes as Jim smiled needlessly on. She waited for Alfred to finish on the phone, watching him become tirelessly stressed as he hung up.

"Voicemail again," He groaned.

"What's going on, Alfred?"

"It's Master B."

"And?"

"And what?"

"I need more than that to go on," Sylvia encouraged.

"Didn't Gordon tell you?"

"Tell me _what_?"

"I guess he didn't."

"Didn't tell me _what_!" She goaded. "Alfred, what the _fuck_ is going on?"

"What do you think is going on?"

"I don't fucking know! That's why I _asked_!"

Alfred seemed to realize that Sylvia wasn't in the loop on any event that was being held so Alfred took her arm, pulled her to the wayside, out of ear shot of anyone else.

"Bruce, Lucius, Gordon—all of them infiltrated Arkham," Alfred explained.

"All three of them? How?"

"Well, it's a delicate plan."

"Yeah, pretty fucking fragile."

"Let me finish, will you?"

"Do it quickly." Sylvia said, rushing him.

"They were going to find out what Strange was hiding, how Strange—ultimately, they wanted to find more evidence against his wrongdoings. Strange is 'The Philosopher', this man who ordered the hit on Martha and Thomas Wayne."

"Okay, I got that much."

"And they went in. But, you see, Gordon is out and about, but I can't find Bruce or Lucius."

"Lucius is the black fellow, right?"

"Correct, Ma'am."

"So Jim is out of the Asylum, but you think Bruce and Lucius are still in there?"

"I think Strange got him."

"Strange is becoming a fucking thorn in my craw hole." Sylvia muttered vehemently.

Alfred blinked, but said encouragingly, "I do believe that Strange has him."

"Let's tell Jim and Harvey, maybe they can send a few people to investigate." Sylvia suggested, taking Alfred's hand and pulling him with her to Harvey, who looked at them expectantly.

"I tried calling the manor a hundred times," Alfred said, distressed. "Not a single word. I believe Strange has him. I'm positive."

"Holy crap," grunted Jim, strolling past Alfred and standing beside Harvey. "Are you _still_ here? I told you a thousand times, Strange is clean."

"You in charge of that, are you?" Alfred scolded, gesturing to Jim as he spoke to Harvey.

"It's strange though, isn't it?" Harvey contemplated aloud. "Strange that they're MIA."

"Ha. 'Strange'…." Jim giggled. "That's funny. 'Strange'."

"Funny!" Alfred exclaimed. " _Funny_!"

Harvey held out a hand, lowering it to goad Alfred into some sort of calmness (not that it helped) and said thoughtfully, "Maybe I should send the Strike Force back into Arkham….have a little look-see."

"No, no, no!" Jim said quickly. "You don't want to do that. Bad idea. Trust me. Terrible idea." Appealing to Harvey's friendship, he said, "How long have you known me?"

"Well, you got a point. I mean, I guess if you're good, I'm good too."

"I don't know who's got to you, Gordon," Alfred said darkly. "But you're just...just _weird_."

"That's what I think too." Sylvia noted aloud, agreeing with Alfred. "Jimmy, you're not acting like yourself at all."

"I'm acting like myself, all right." Jim reassured. "Trust me…."

"Trust _you_?" Sylvia questioned. "You go MIA for several hours, and you don't even ask me to come along?"

"Why would I ask you?"

"'Why would you ask me'?" Sylvia repeated incredulously. "Are you fucking kidding me? I'm the one that got you looking in the right fucking direction—remember, going after The Lady and her associates? Finding out Strange was 'The Philosopher', all of that? And going after Strange, finding out what his seedy plots entail—that's not something you'd want me in on? _Please_."

Jim stuffed his hand in his pockets, had a thoughtful expression cross his face for a second before he said with a smirk, "I could think of a lot of places I'd like you to get in but Strange's castle ain't one of them, doll."

"Why are you talking like that?" Sylvia questioned.

"Talking like what?"

"That innuendo."

"Come on, Sugar bean. You know I'm just messing with you," Jim said quickly after realizing he had hit a sore spot.

But that's just it, wasn't it? Jim _never_ spoke to her like that. The very idea of anything sexual associating with Sylvia was too taboo to him. At least to her real brother. This man in front of her didn't seem like him at all. Not since he had come out of Arkham.

"'Sugar bean'?" She repeated. "'Doll'? You've never called me that."

"What can I tell ya? I like coming up with pet names for you."

"Well, I don't like it. And—if you haven't realized it, _James—_ I'm your sister. I'm not your fucking 'pet'."

Harvey and Alfred glanced at one another uncomfortably.

A moment passed.

She said carefully, "Jim."

"Yes?"

"What _do_ you call me?"

"Hmm?"

"My nickname."

"He knows what he calls you," Harvey pointed out. "Sounds a little off asking him to—"

"I'm testing something, Harv. _So shut it._ " Sylvia snapped.

Harvey held up his hands and backed off.

She looked at Jim seriously.

"Jimmy…What do you call me?"

"Um…."

"Vee. You call me 'Vee'. Not 'Doll'. And _definitely_ not 'Sugar Bean'."

"Oh right…right…." Jim said, smirking. "The nickname, yeah. You're 'Vee'."

"Right." She looked at him oddly, adding, "What the fuck has gotten into you?"

Jim leaned forward.

"I like calling you 'Vee'. Tell me, sweet thing, what _other_ names do I call you, hm?"

"Jim. I love you," Sylvia reassured. "And I can understand that Strange messed with you or something, and I can understand _all_ of that. But if you continue to talk to me like that, I'm going to kick you hard enough between your legs that your balls will retreat so far up into your prostate that not even your proctologist will find them."

"Ooh, _kinky_." Jim purred.

Harvey and Alfred backed up a little, certain that this man was not Jim Gordon now. Or at least, fairly certain that Jim was under more than just the flu. Maybe Strange had given him drugs.

Her threat completely flew over Jim's head; in fact, it had spurred him on. He moved towards Sylvia and he kissed her right on the mouth. She was so surprised by it, she hadn't reacted—even when his tongue slipped inside her mouth. When the surprise quickly wore off, Sylvia grabbed both of Jim's shoulders and kneed him so hard in the groin that Jim squealed like a pig. He straightened only for Sylvia to punch him hard in the face.

When she did, Jim looked back at her. Or at least, half his face could. The other half looked as though it had been flattened with a rolling pin. At that moment, the Strike Force attacked him, tackled, and handcuffed him.

"Whoever you are, you're under arrest—"

Sylvia rubbed her face, grabbed a bottle of Listerine sitting on Alvarez' desk and gurgled half of it before spitting it out.

"What the hell—" Harvey began, shocked.

Sylvia rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand: "We'll talk about this later. We have go to back to Arkham!"

"Strike Force!" Harvey gathered. "We're going back!"

Strike Force started peeling out the door, all shouting, "GET JIM! GET JIM!" One of them said, "I can't believe that just happened!"

Alfred looked worriedly at Sylvia.

She said hastily, "Come on!"

"Where exactly are we going?" Alfred demanded as she grabbed his wrist and pulled him out.

"To find Bruce! We'll take my car."

"We'll take mine, it's faster!"

"Fine. But I'm driving."

"Wait, wait—"

"Alfred—"

"It's a stick shift!" Alfred cautioned.

"So! I can drive a stick. Let's _go!_ "

"Oh…All right then!" Alfred said, getting into the passenger seat.

They buckled in and shot out of the parking lot before revving it up, speeding towards Arkham.

"I imagine that you're going to have to undergo plenty of therapy after that monstrosity," Alfred said nervously as he held onto the dash board as Sylvia zipped through four lanes of traffic.

"Please." Sylvia said, rolling her eyes. "That's not the first time I've felt violated. I've endured more humility watching the first Twilight movie."

"Well," Alfred coughed…And he didn't know what else to say after that.

**Chapter 3: Stuck In An Elevator**

Chapter Three: Stuck In An Elevator

Alfred and Sylvia pushed the car doors open after the vehicle had come to a jolting halt. While she appeared in good health, Alfred looked two shades duller as though he'd just walked straight out of a horror movie.

"Are you okay, Alfred?"

"Fine, fine…Did anyone teach you how to drive?" Alfred remarked, holding his chest where his heart was no doubt beating five times as fast prior to getting into the car with her. "You damn near got us killed, you did!"

"You're alive, aren't you?" Sylvia responded smartly, smirking at him. "Besides, look around you. The police aren't even here—they're probably _just_ getting on the 90 Highway. You should be thanking me!"

"Never mind that." He lifted his eyes to Arkham. "How are we getting in there? There must be _a multitude_ of guards."

"Guards are human."

"Your point being what exactly?"

Sylvia leaned into the window of the passenger seat, opened the glove compartment and her lips curled into a satisfied smile as she took two hand guns out, checking to make sure they were loaded before tossing Alfred one; he caught it on the dime.

"According to Jim, you were in the military," Sylvia said, meeting him in front of the car. "I'm assuming that being a butler hasn't deteriorated those Special Forces skills of yours?"

Alfred smiled at her proudly: "I should say they haven't."

"Good to hear. This is what's going to happen…."

"Are you a strategist?"

"I'd like to think I am. Or did _you_ want to lead this thing?"

"I say I have better strategy than you. I did more than just fight in the military—I was part of the British SAS."

"Fine, _you're_ the expert. But let me ask you this question, would you?"

"Sure…."

"Have you ever _been_ in Arkham?" Sylvia questioned, knowing the answer would be a loud, resounding 'no'. "And if you ever have, have you stepped further than a desk or an office, or the fucking waiting room per chance?"

Obviously insulted by her inquiry—more insulted by her tone than anything, Alfred shifted in his stance uncomfortably.

"That's what I thought," Sylvia sneered. "That covers it: you're the British SAS, and I've been in Arkham more than once."

"No doubt visiting that husband of yours."

"Yes, and on a few other occasions. Before we go in guns blazing, a proper strategist would try talking their way in, wouldn't you agree?"

"Talk your way in? _You_?" Alfred repeated with a scoff. "You're not exactly dressed like a business woman, now, are you? People in Gotham _know_ who you are, what kind of people you're associated with. And I am fairly certain that Strange's guards are not going to let you just stroll right in."

Sylvia smirked: "You know I didn't have to _bring_ you with me, right?"

"I could agree, but how does that tie in with what we're talking about?"

She sighed with a roll of her eyes, and from the inside of her boots, she took out Harvey Bullocks' handcuffs.

"How did you—when did you snag those?" Alfred asked incredulously.

"I also have the key." She hummed, lifting the little thing and waving it gingerly in front of him. "This is what's going to happen, Jeeves. The fact is, you're right—by now, people know who I am, what I do, and the type of people I associate myself with. Odds of me walking in like I am some sort of inspector won't fly too quickly—I'm pretty sure that's how Fox and Bruce got in, right?"

Alfred nodded.

"So, having a repeat of that scenario is going to look downright suspicious," Sylvia mused, smirking. "So, this is the scenario…." (She threw Alfred the cuffs, and he took them, albeit with shock and uncertainty.) "When we get in, the first guard you see, you're going to disarm them, undress them, and you'll be the correctional guard. You're a fit fellow, so you should be able to fit into any of the guards' uniforms, I suspect?"

Alfred smiled at the compliment: "All right. That's easy enough. What about you?"

"I'm the sad, poor little patient that you'll be escorting." Sylvia returned, holding her wrists together and out for Alfred to restrain. "People assume I'm bat shit crazy anyway, so this role fits me like a glove."

"You want me to slap the 'cuffs on you, is that it?"

"That's why I brought the key."

"Fine then." Alfred acknowledged.

He didn't 'slap' the cuffs on her as he mentioned, but gently pulled the links together until they clicked once or twice. His face was back to its natural color, but Sylvia noticed that his cheeks blushed a soft shade of pink.

"Are you alright, there, Mr. Pennyworth?"

"I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. You just look like a shy little boy right now."

"Well, handcuffing a woman isn't—I should say I haven't—that's to say that I wouldn't—"

"So quickly embarrassed!" Sylvia chuckled. "You make it _too_ easy, Alfred."

The Butler gave her another disgruntled look, although he seemed pacified once Sylvia continued on with the scenario.

"We'll go in, you'll talk to the guards at the front desk," Sylvia said, as she and Alfred strode together towards the hospital. "Once inside, you'll take off the hand cuffs and from there on out, you'll follow me. This hospital is a fucking maze; so please, try to keep up."

"Do you make a habit of using that condescending tone?" Alfred questioned, looking over his shoulder at her. "It's a little irritating, mind you."

"Is it? I barely noticed."

"The attitude isn't called for either, Missy."

"'Missy'," Sylvia repeated with a delighted smirk. "Next you'll be calling me 'Miss Frumpkin'."

"Would that annoy you?"

"I've been called worse."

"I'm sure you have."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Alfred sighed, "Let's just go in and find Master Bruce, please?"

"What do you think we're doing?"

She stepped to the side, a few spaces between them as they approached the large doors of the hospital. A guard stood just in front of them, armed with a radio, a flash light on his belt, and a rifle in his hands. Once he saw them, his barrel was poised to shoot. Alfred was quicker than Sylvia had imagined him to be; before the guard could call off the location and appearance of the two suspects, he was already on the ground, knocked unconscious.

Alfred adjusted his vest, rolling up his sleeves to the elbows, and said to Sylvia, "See? Now _that's_ how you properly disarm a guard."

"Disarming Correctional Officers 101."

"There's that condescending tone again."

"It keeps me bright in spirits, just let me be."

"Sarcastic remarks aside, I think you're just trying to hide the fact that you're scared." Alfred noted, bending down at the knee to acquire the guard's uniform.

He didn't strip down to nothing; not only would that have been time consuming, but he wasn't about to show his bits and pieces to a woman as fun-poking as Sylvia Cobblepot. Alfred put the clothes over his, grabbed the radio and flashlight, placing both on the holster belt seated on the waistband of his pants, and took the rifle as well.

"Fat lot of good this antique would have done." Alfred muttered under his breath.

"No bullets?"

"Hardly any. There's just enough for one shot."

"Might as well be an empty magazine."

"Strange doesn't look after his people well enough."

"Strange isn't responsible for stocking and refurnishing Arkham's employees with weapons and ammunition. If you want to complain to someone about how well they're taken care of, that's Human Resources."

"Know all of that, do you?" Alfred said, getting to his feet and straightened his uniform in general.

Sylvia held up her cuffed wrists in order to poke her temples saying smartly, "Knowledge is power, my dear Alfred."

"It's also quite the burden."

"Well, I can't argue with that."

"Should we be heading in now?"

"Any time you're ready; I've been waiting on _you_."

"You're a bit of a spitfire, aren't you, Miss?"

"As fiery as they come, darling."

He took her by the bicep of her left arm, pulling her inside through the hospital doors as a correctional officer would roughly do so.

Sylvia's boot heels clicked on the gray, cold tiles. It was dark and dingy through the halls, unwelcoming. The combination of decontamination sprays, perfume, and carpet deodorants made up an acrid odor, and it curled their noses as they strolled through the corridor.

"The desk will be on the left," Sylvia muttered. So quietly she'd spoken, but even then there seemed to be an echo.

"This place can certainly make anyone uncomfortable."

"Yeah, not exactly a place any human should inhabit on a regular basis."

"I'm certain this would be a H&R complaint."

Sylvia jested, "I know where that office is too."

"Are they taking applications?"

"What, you don't like being a butler anymore?"

"I'm more than happy to be Master B's butler, but I think any person would feel the need to spiffy this place up a bit."

"The pay would be better."

"How much?"

Sylvia chuckled, "About five dollars more, if not less."

"That's still better than what I make in a week."

"Well, at least your housing is taken care of, and your company isn't too bad either."

"You have a point there."

She stepped over an application that had been halfway filled out until it had been thrown on the floor.

"Oh look, someone did half the work for you." Sylvia poked fun.

"Not interested."

"You get weekends off."

"Oh, fantastic, _that's_ convinced me. Where do I sign?" Alfred said sardonically.

"Mm-hmm, _now_ who's being sarcastic."

"You're a cheeky one, aren't you?"

"Shut up, Alfred—we're coming up to the window."

Sure as she was, Alfred turned the corner and saw a square. The square was a window of impenetrable glass with a smaller rectangle of an opening so files and folders could be slipped through to either party inside or outside of aforementioned window. Behind it was a guard who wore the same uniform Alfred currently dubbed.

The guard lifted his eyes when they'd entered his peripheral; with a dull look and a flat tone, he said, "How's it going?"

In order not to attract any attention to themselves, Alfred spoke in an effortless American accent, saying, "Not too bad. You, buddy?"

Sylvia's eyebrow cocked upwards, obviously humored by Alfred's attempt to be like the rest of them. After hearing his British accent for the longest time and his overbearing sophistication, Sylvia couldn't hear anything more comical than Alfred saying the word 'buddy'.

"Who's this?" The guard questioned, smiling knowingly at Sylvia. "She's a beautiful specimen if I ever saw one."

"Well, she's a prisoner."

"She's not one of ours."

"Remember every pathetic skell in this place, do you?" Alfred questioned.

"Most of these morons, I could forget. But this one….no, I would remember her."

He tapped the eraser head of his pencil on the glass, and Sylvia eyed him dangerously.

"What's your name, Prisoner?"

"You _know_ who I am." She retorted.

"People call you 'Lark'. Why is that, I wonder?"

"I sing and dance."

"Larks are known for their song. Perhaps we should test it out one day?"

"You?" She said skeptically. "I couldn't spare a second."

Alfred clenched his hand around Sylvia's arm and said forcefully, "That's enough from _you_."

Satisfied with Alfred's response to the situation, the guard sighed, pushed a button, and said, "Well, she'll warm up to us, I imagine. Most of them do. If not, we can always just put her in the chair and watch her convulse in the damn thing. A beautiful thing like her—I would trade two paychecks to see _that_ show."

"That's not saying much," Alfred said with a forced smile. "Considering our paychecks aren't much to begin with, huh?"

The guard laughed, "Ha! You got a point there! Ha! Ha, ha, ha. Go on, man. The door's open."

Alfred cleared his throat, took Sylvia by the arm again and practically dragged her through the buzzed-open door. Once inside, he let go of her and also dropped his American accent. Sylvia lifted her wrists and quickly, as though he couldn't bear to see Sylvia in this prisoner status any longer, Alfred unlocked the cuffs and shook his head in disgust.

"What's wrong? You were great!"

"Yes. That, I was. But..." Alfred shuddered, meeting her gaze. "I despise it when I hear or see a man talk to a lady like that. Grinds my bloody nerves."

Sylvia patted his shoulder.

"It's amazing to me how you don't have a lady yourself with as well as you treat us. It's over though. So, let's proceed, hm?"

"Of course, yes. We should. We definitely should. Who knows what Strange is doing with poor Bruce." Alfred said, rubbing his hands together. He glanced at Sylvia's hand, which had been resting on his shoulder, comforting him, and realized that for that short period, the cuffs had made red rings around her wrists.

He took one of her hands and looked at it remorsefully.

"I'm terribly sorry about that," Alfred apologized.

"Please," She scoffed, taking her wrists from him and she rubbed them consolably. "This is nothing. I've been through a lot worse than this."

Alfred couldn't contemplate, or even imagine what those things were. Nor did he wish to think about it. It was plain to see that someone as beautiful as her would deal with a lot of catcalls and harassing comments, and that alone was a sinful thing.

The small conversation left a space for an awkward moment to settle, at least for the butler. Sylvia, on the other hand, smiled and she insisted that they move forward.

Sylvia hadn't changed since talking to Butch earlier that morning, making peace with a friend over Tabitha's coma state. She still wore the blood-red V neck blouse, fish net stockings, a knee-length black skirt, and black, heeled, knee-high laced up boots. Where she had tossed Alfred the gun so she could slip by the security like a newly admitted prisoner, she now carried it in her hand while Alfred stayed behind her, following her lead.

She wasn't lying when she said she knew Arkham.

She didn't look through any rooms or read any signs to get where she needed to be. Alfred followed with only three steps leading behind her, careful to look over his shoulder when he heard an unsettling noise. Then again, this was Arkham, wasn't it? Everything about the place was unsettling.

They'd have to take the elevator down though. They'd searched this floor, and there was no sign of Bruce, Fox, or Jim. Perhaps that was less troubling since there wasn't a sign of a struggle either.

"Care to make a wager?" Sylvia asked quietly as she moved into the elevator (Alfred insisted that she go in first.).

"Is that a joke?"

"Kind of." She sighed, and she punched the number for the floor below.

"In all honesty, I'm not in the mood for jokes."

"A riddle then?"

Alfred contemplated that, and said with a tone that could only be described as 'slightly humored', "Fine. One riddle."

"Do you _like_ riddles?"

"Is that the riddle?"

"No, that was a question. If you don't like them, I won't hurt your brain with one."

"And the condescension continues."

"It's my natural state of being, you might want to get used to it."

"Considering the reason behind it?"

"We might get stuck in the elevator. If you're ever stuck in an elevator, the best scenario is to be either stuck with someone you love or someone you hate."

"The question is which one am I," Alfred contemplated with a friendly smile.

"Sometimes, love and hate are frequently intertwined."

"I don't think so. Someone you hate can hurt you."

"So can a loved one. It's not the people who you despise that you have to watch out for. You expect them to hurt you. It's the people who pretend to love you."

"Speaking from experience?"

"More than one."

The elevator made a creaking sound, slowing to a stop at first. Then it continued and when it did, she and Alfred let out a relieved sigh.

"Come to think of it," Sylvia continued, "I…."

The elevator made another lurching sound. Followed by a jolt, big enough to make Sylvia and Alfred hold the rails lining the walls. They exchanged nervous glances. Sylvia quickly hit the button to their designation, but the light would come on then off, repeatedly. It was like the machine didn't know what the fuck was going on. Now neither did they.

"To think the city's money went to this bloody place." Alfred grumbled.

"We have Mayor James to thank for that."

"Oh, right, _that_ old git."

"I'll have a list of items to discuss with Human Resources after this."

"If we'd taken the stairs, we'd have been down there by now."

"Who knew the elevator would go belly up, though," Sylvia defended the two of them. "Granted, this thing has enough antiquity to be in a museum."

Another lurching sound echoed in the elevator shaft. It wasn't something to be relieved about, but it meant that the lift was trying to figure out what to do.

"How about that riddle?" Alfred asked unhappily.

"Oh, now you're just bored." She returned, smirking at him.

"Just have a go, will you?"

"Fine, then. What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, and has a bed but never sleeps?"

Alfred thought about it for a second, muttering, "Never walks…a mouth…..head but never weeps….a bed, but never sleeps…"

"Do you give up?"

"Give a man a second, would you!" Alfred snapped.

Sylvia raised her eyebrows and whistled low: "Quick to snap, old chap?"

Alfred continued to mumble to himself. After five minutes had passed, he said proudly, "I know the answer."

Sylvia gestured to him to go on.

"It's a river."

"Yes, it is."

"That was a little harder than I care to admit," He confessed.

"Well, with the situation that we're in," Sylvia consoled, "one can understand why it would be."

A moment of silence. Then….

"How did you manage to get involved with this?" Alfred asked, sitting on the floor of the elevator.

By now, since the air conditioning didn't seem to work, he'd taken off the officer's uniform and was back to appearing like Alfred, The Butler, instead of his other counterpart. In all honesty, Sylvia preferred that look on him more than the other.

She, too, sat on the ground, her legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle. Thoughtfully, she was twisting her wedding ring on her left hand, her eyes cast downward at nothing as she had been deep in thought. Now she was pulled out of her reverie by Alfred's question.

"Jim," Sylvia said as though his name explained every reason for her interference.

"Now, see, it's curious you say that," Alfred said, pointing to her.

"Why is it curious?"

"I've never seen a relationship more complicated than yours…where Gordon is concerned."

Sylvia laughed, "You don't know the half of it."

"Did he ask you to do this?"

"In not so many words."

"And how did he phrase it when he did ask?"

"He doesn't have to ask."

Alfred sent her a curious look, nodding as in acknowledgement to her response. Seeing that he was interested and because, frankly, they had nothing else going on for the moment, she indulged him.

"Jim and I have always been on and off," She said lightly. "Either we're close as twins or we're estranged to the point of hating each other. There's hardly a middle. But I won't turn away family when they need me most."

"I'm still surprised that you two are as close as you _are_." Alfred remarked. "From what I've seen anyway."

"You're talking about me being married to Oswald?"

"And many other things."

"Jim doesn't like it. Since he found out Oswald and I were together, he's always hated the idea of it. From openly coming out with the relationship, to being engaged, to getting married—Jim has dragged his feet every step of the way. I think he and Oz finally found some type of way of getting along."

"How does that work, now?" Alfred asked curiously. "You being the Underworld's Queen and, yet, you've been in on several GCPD investigations—not to mention the one regarding Master Bruce's parents. You told Gordon that you found out that Strange was 'The Philosopher', didn't you? By chance, how did you do that?"

Sylvia smiled.

"I can be very persuasive."

"I imagine so. You have all the money in the world, don't you?"

"Most of it, yes, but writing a check and waving it in someone's face doesn't always work," Sylvia reminded. "Like I told Jim—some people don't want or care for money. Some people just want to be acknowledged, seen as a human being, endure a nice, pleasant conversation, and be treated with equal respect."

"And what persuades you, if you don't mind me asking?" Alfred inquired calmly. "You don't seem the type to run towards a bank without a plan, and even so, you aren't so easily distracted, are you?"

"I'm actually very impulsive and compulsive, but I've had to grow a little since my husband had been incarcerated in this fucking place. Otherwise, you got me down to a science. You're right: I know what I want, I see what I want…Everything else is just wallpaper and background noises."

"So, what is it, then? What persuades you?"

"A little charm, a little class," Sylvia shrugged a shoulder shyly. "Show me you have a brain, and I'll show you I have a sweet side. Despite my brutish mannerisms, I _am_ a woman when it comes down to it. Some may deny it but that's all a woman really wants, you know: to be respected as an equal but treated like the fair lady she is."

Alfred offered a genuine smile: "I suspect that's what Mr. Cobblepot did to earn your hand in marriage, wasn't it?"

"Well, that, and many other things."

"So what was in it for you to find out Strange was this 'Philosopher'."

"Jim asked for my help."

"And that's all it takes, is it?"

Sylvia stood to her feet.

"Jim and I may not always see eye-to-eye, but he knows that when he needs me, he can find me. And vice versa."

"He needs you a lot more than you need him." Alfred pointed out, standing as well.

"And he's admitted that in the past…" Sylvia paused, and said pointedly, "I also sought out the information to help you and Bruce."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yes, it is. Not just a fact, but the truth."

"You really care what's happened to him?"

"I care that his parents were murdered in a fucking alley," Sylvia said coolly. "I care that he was orphaned at a stage no child should ever be left alone. Personally, I could care less that my father died in a car crash—he and I never saw eye to eye—but if he was killed, you can bet your dollar that I _would_ find his murderers, and I would see them put to death _personally_."

Alfred crossed his arms, saying, "There's more to you than just corruption, obscenities, and paradoxes, isn't there, Mrs. Cobblepot?"

"Many children don't have parents, Alfred. There are more orphans than I can count. You're asking me if I'm doing all of this" (She gesticulated to the elevator as a whole) "because I care about Bruce Wayne? I'm not. In fact, if it wasn't for my brother, you and any other person related to Bruce could not find me or touch me with a thirty-five-and-a-half-foot pole."

Alfred frowned at that, but she continued:

"I have two separate personalities, mind you," Sylvia reassured. "There's the part of me that rules Gotham with an iron fist. That part of me is cold, sadistic, and—if I'm being honest—a complete fucking psychopath. But there's another part of me, and I find myself trying my hardest to forget it because that part of me is compassionate, open-minded, selfless, and empathetic to anyone who suffers or has suffered because someone was acting like a self-serving, loathsome excuse for a human being.

"That soft side of me is easily tricked, manipulated, and—as a result—has suffered multiple betrayals and pain. Because of that, it has slowly been deteriorating. I've been through enough that any person in Gotham wouldn't blame me if I just let the darker side take over. I've been sexually assaulted, harassed, and berated…betrayed by friends and allies….and—for a moment—the love of my life couldn't look me in the eye because of all the things I had done _for him_ , all the nitty gritty things. I go to sleep and relive every fucking nightmare that I have been through, and it damn near drives me fucking insane."

Alfred sighed softly, "What keeps you from breaking?"

Sylvia smiled.

"Remember what I said: there's people you hate, people you love—nothing in the middle?"

"Yes, in any case an elevator breaks down, which is what's happened, I think." Alfred pointed out, glancing at the blinking lights on the buttons.

"James, Oswald, Ed…." She continued, "you and Bruce Wayne even….you guys hold me down, keep me from floating away. Now, I've always embraced my darkness—Jim could tell you that—but I've not completely jumped for it. You all keep me sane, remind me that I need to maintain some type of humanity."

Alfred said gently, "The people you love will always remind you of who you truly are."

"Yes, well, that may be. But it's also the people you love that can stab you quietly and you don't know you're bleeding until you're at death's door. Fundamental fact: Love is risky. It's the reason why you and I met in the first place, and it's the reason you and I are stuck in this fucking thing until either someone finds us, or this place goes up in smoke…."

The elevator gave another hard jolt, vibrating the floor and the walls around them. The light behind the buttons flickered on and off for a good minute and the lights towering above them did the same. When the lights shut off, it pitched Sylvia and Alfred into darkness…but the fan started blowing so at least the air conditioning seemed to be working now.

"Well, this could be a problem." Alfred muttered in the dark.

"Just a small one."

They both let out of a soft, unnerving laugh, followed by unmet, awkward silence. It might have been thirty minutes that passed before either of them had spoken a word.

"How long did you know Thomas and Martha Wayne?" Sylvia asked softly.

Alfred answered after a moment, "Are you just talking to pass the time?"

"Honestly: yes."

"Let's talk about something else then."

"Fine then. What do you want to talk about?"

"Well, you and I seem to share animosity for Strange and his puppies. Let's talk about him, shall we?"

Sylvia chuckled, "I can talk smack about him all day for eternity, but that won't change our unfortunate situation. We should discuss how we are going to get out of here."

"That's a fair point."

"I should say so."

"Any ideas?"

"You're the SAS," Sylvia returned, unable to hide her amusement. "Shouldn't you be the one popping up with ideas of escape?"

"It's been a long time since I had to consider entrapment."

"But not the first time in a long while since you had to consider getting out of a scrape."

"Talking about Azrael, are you?"

"Azrael, no. Galavan, yes. I refuse to call him by that name. 'Azrael'. What a load of crap. He dressed different, talked different, but he was still the same fucking son-of-a-bitch."

"You curse a lot, don't you, Sylvia?"

"It's a natural state of being."

"Like your sarcasm?"

"Yes to both. It helps me think."

"Try cursing as you think about a way out of here."

"We could go through the ceiling."

"We're on the twelfth floor by now—then again, maybe we are on the second," Alfred said doubtfully. "The elevator has moved up and down so many times, I've lost my bearing."

"I lost my equilibrium the moment I got in this fucking box."

"Worst case scenario?"

"We're on the twentieth floor. The worst scenarios are limitless."

"What's the worst one you could think of?"

Sylvia said lightly, but her voice was ominous, spoken in the dark: "We lose what air conditioning we have, and it stays black as fucking night. Worst case scenario: you and I become dehydrated, unable to think or speak, and our problem isn't finding Bruce anymore: it's survival. And if it comes down to it: cannibalism. How much of a fighter are you if you haven't drunk in a couple hours, Alfred? This information might be helpful to me later down the line."

"Think that's funny, do you? We're in a bad rut of a situation, and you want to make jokes."

"I'm thinking 'worst case'. Now, we _can_ get on top of the elevator shaft and climb to the nearest floor, that's fine with me. I'm fit as a fucking fiddle, and that ain't a goddamn riddle. But if I have to lug you around on my back, I'm thinking that might take some time."

"I can take care of myself, _Missy_ ," Alfred snapped. "Don't you worry about _me_."

"How far is it between floors, though?" Sylvia asked, ignoring his tone. "How far would we have to climb?"

"Twenty, thirty feet at the least…Fifty at the most, I'm not certain."

"Fuck me." Sylvia hissed. "I don't know if I can climb for that long."

"You've been training with a CIA Agent, I hear. Been going on runs and lifting—and you're telling me you can't sky climb a rope when your life depends on it, get out of here."

"'Get out of here'? Okay, Mr. I-Can-Climb-50-Feet, what do you propose we do?"

"What—"

"Can you open the ceiling?"

"If there's a hatch."

"I don't see one."

"Well, it's not going to be noticeable, is it?" Alfred retorted, waving his hand in the dark—not that Sylvia could see it.

"Even if it wasn't fucking black as night in this godforsaken cube, there would still be a hatch, wouldn't there?"

"The architects wouldn't make it visible."

"But we'd be able to find it. It's a fucking hatch—not the Bermuda Triangle or the Holy Grail."

The lights flickered. An annoying low hum sounded after each flicker as though the building itself had just come out of a cat nap and was trying to wake itself up, however slowly. The lights then dulled to a dull orange; it wasn't the best to see in, but at least they could see their own hands. And, for that matter, the vaguest outline of a hatch in the farthest upper right corner of the elevator's ceiling.

"I'm half-surprised that a repairman hasn't come down to relieve the shaft," Alfred noted curiously.

"I'd push the 'help' button, but that wouldn't be in our best interests, now would it?"

Then the lights flickered once more and pitched them into total darkness again.

With a shaky sigh of exasperation, Sylvia crouched down nearest to the door, and tried to open it half-haphazardly, nails clawing at any metal opening she could find, but the doors were slid completely shut and there was no leniency given.

"Don't panic," Alfred cautioned. "We're nothing to each other if we panic."

"I don't like it."

"Well, pardon me, but I don't care much for it either."

The lights flickered once more; in the middle of it, Sylvia opened a smaller metal door, and pulled out an array of colorful wires. Red, blue, green, black, and clear wires were tangled together, fixed into two other colorful nodes.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Alfred asked.

"I don't. I don't know anything at this point. But I saw it on a movie once."

"Saw what on a—don't go messing with those if you don't know what they do!"

Alfred grabbed her shoulder, pulling her back. She glared at him, and she stood.

"What the fuck do you expect us to do then?" Sylvia questioned harshly. "While you and I are stuck in this fucking cube, _your_ ward and _my_ brother are with Strange right now, going through only god knows what. If we can't go up, we have to go down and I don't see a fucking hatch on the ground. Do _you_!"

She struck the floor with her heel to prove a point. The elevator didn't even budge.

"We're not going to get far by fighting like this though," Alfred reminded.

"Don't think I know that?"

"I've had to remind you several times, now, haven't I?"

"Aren't _you_ scared?"

"Of course, I am."

"Then fucking _bloody_ act like it!" Sylvia screamed. "I don't want to be in this fucking thing any more if I don't have to!"

"Would addressing you as 'lark' help you any?" Alfred offered sarcastically. "Since that's apparently what people call you these days."

"You could call me 'goddess of the Ocean' and I still wouldn't like it." She resounded, trying once more to open the metal doors, pulling and tugging. "Why won't this fucking thing _open for fuck's sake!_ "

Alfred leaned his back against the wall, and said smartly, "What if I started calling you 'pigeon'?"

Sylvia blinked and slowly turned to him.

"I hope that was a poor attempt at humor," She said dangerously.

"Not exactly."

"You're going to get yourself hurt if you don't watch it, old man. Because of this fucking situation we're in, I'm going to pretend that you just said that because you're hallucinating or something. Acceptable?"

"Fine." Alfred said, shrugging. "But if you start panicking like that again, I'll know what to use in order to piss you off again, won't I?"

"I wasn't panicking."

"You were screaming."

"Screaming seemed necessary."

"And you're shaking—"

"Would you _try_ to be fucking useful for a second," Sylvia snarled. "Just think of another way out of this fucking cage before I go fucking crazy, would you! Commenting on my appearance and how I'm acting isn't fucking helping me cope, you know! You're just pissing me off!"

"You're scared. Anyone in your position would be—including me—but what we need to do is not lose our heads. Personally, if I had to choose, I'd rather have you pissed off instead of panicking."

"You'd rather me want to kill you?" Sylvia retorted.

"It beats the alternative where you're panicking, and screaming your bloody head off."

She took a long deep inhale and then exhaled just as slowly. Her eyes searched every nook and cranny in the elevator, but ultimately, there were only two ways out of here. Either they took the chance of wearing down their muscles to climb up to the nearest floor (even if it might be fifty or sixty feet up) or they could chance the fiddling of the wires and see if that'd either make them descend down a fifty-foot drop, or open the doors. The stakes were never higher.

"Let's cool down a second, huh?" Alfred suggested. "Clear our heads first, and then we can decide what to do."

"I _know_ what I want to do."

"Before we make the decision, we must think it all the way through."

"Either situation could mean us dying."

"Have you tried using your cellular phone?"

"I didn't bring it with me. It's at home. What about yours?"

Alfred pulled out his cell, pressed a button and then he showed the result to her; it was dead too.

"Fat lot of good _that_ did." Sylvia muttered, rubbing her face.

"Let's weigh the worst-case scenarios, and pretend that neither of them will end with us dead. I mean, I'm a pretty fit guy, I'd like to think so, and you seem in good health where your physique stands, so climbing at least twenty feet up, even if it meant going up fifty would be a task—I'm not pretending it won't be—but it is doable." Alfred calculated, looking up at the ceiling. "We could open the hatch and then see exactly where we are in distance."

"Good idea." Sylvia sighed, rubbing her temples. "Whatever decision we go with, we have to make sure we're both in on it. Okay? No desertion."

"My dear," Alfred promised, "you must be the most certifiable and argumentative woman with whom I've ever had the pleasure of being stuck in an elevator, but what you can be rest assured of is that I will not be deserting you any time soon. So shall we?"

Sylvia nodded and she stood up with him.

"The hatch is there, it looks like," Alfred guessed.

"Well, you're taller, so you could reach it more than I can."

"If I stand on my toes…."

"I can lift you a little if you want."

"I'm twice or three times your weight—"

Sylvia ignored him and she knelt down, cradling her hands together so he could take a leg up. Seeing as he didn't want to start another debate with this woman, Alfred sighed reluctantly; he expected her to spit out a curse and him to fall due to her overestimation of bearing weight, but he was pleasantly surprised when she lifted him up and he met the hatch with ease.

They let out sighs of relief when the hatch was already unlocked. Forcibly, Alfred pushed the hatch cover up and he looked through it.

"What does it look like?" Sylvia asked from below.

"Less than thirty feet, if I had to guess. Maybe even twenty…I admit, without the light, I'm not the best judge of distance. Do you want to have a look?"

"I'll take your word for it!"

Sylvia lowered him down and Alfred grinned at her.

"Do you power lift?" He asked, looking at her with a whole new perspective.

"I can bench press about three-hundred pounds," She admitted proudly.

"That's incredible!"

"Tell me something I don't know," Sylvia returned, winking at him. Back to business: "Since it's not nearly as far as we thought, I think it's doable. What do you think?"

"I admit it might be a challenge, but if it's the only way out—"

"I don't want to risk falling to my death if the first option is doable."

"Neither do I, rest assured."

"So we're doing this?" Sylvia asked uncertainly.

"If you're not 100% sure…"

"I'm more than 100% sure that I want out of this fucking thing. I just don't know...this whole fucking thing is becoming too insane for my tastes."

"On that, I think we can both agree."

He lifted himself up, leaving the rifle behind. Seeing as how things were, carrying rifles were the least of their worries for the moment. If they were going to climb, they'd need to travel light as possible. Seeing as this was so, Sylvia took off her boots; after, she reached up and handed Alfred the two hand guns, which he placed (with the safety on) between his back and the waistband of his pants. After, Alfred grabbed her hand with a grunt, he pulled her up onto the top of the elevator. As she settled on top of the elevator shaft, she noticed the distance.

It was discouraging to say the least, but reachable at the same time.

"What about order?"

"What about it?"

"Well, I don't mind going first," Alfred offered, "being the man and all."

"Afraid that if you go up second, you might see up my skirt?" Sylvia teased, smirking when Alfred turned that familiar soft shade of pink again.

"Now isn't the time for joking!"

"I'd rather be poking fun instead of losing my head, you know. But all joking aside: You're right. If you want to go first, you're more than welcome to, but I can guarantee that once you get through the elevator door, you won't be meeting friends."

"So you think _you_ should go first?"

"I'm charismatic and these lunatics know who I am, even whilst being stuck in their cages," Sylvia said lightly. "Between you and me, the odds of us getting threatened would be slim if they saw me first."

"And if Strange is there?"

"I'll gladly put his head on a pike."

"Colorful," Alfred sighed as he rubbed his eyelids with the pads of his index fingers. "Perhaps you should go first then."

"Will do."

She grappled the metallic rope with her legs and arms, climbing up as though she was back in high school again, up the knotted, cattle-hair ropes. The only difference between then and now was that the rope she climbed currently didn't sway left and right nearly as much; it made it easier to keep her balance, and her determination set. She glanced down to see Alfred taking off his coat, wearing the collared long-sleeve shirt pulled up to his elbows, and the vest unbuttoned just enough to take the load off his chest so he could breathe quicker and easier. He ascended in the same manner.

"When Thomas and Martha Wayne made me Bruce's guardian, I thought I'd have to do a lot of things for him," Alfred said conversationally as he grunted and sighed in effort to get up the rope. "But never in all my years of being their butler did I ever imagine having to do _this."_

"I wish I could say the same thing," Sylvia chuckled. "But being Jim's sister has always held an insurmountable number of possibilities to include going after mobsters, protecting his girlfriends from other mobsters, and—now – tunneling through a fucking elevator with a rich boy's butler. On the list of things I would not have expected to happen, this is probably Number Ten."

As fun as the conversation was, the two of them had silenced in order to retain their energy for the climb itself. They'd return when they were at least halfway up. Steadily, both could feel their energy depleting, their bicep and tricep muscles tingling with exhaustion; a cramp was slowly making its way into Sylvia's abdomen and it seemed to bear down on her right hip.

"How're you doing down there?" Sylvia panted, glancing over her right arm to see Alfred a few feet below.

"Just….well, doing, you know." Alfred answered from below, sounding just as tired. "How much further, do you think?"

She looked up, and said uncertainly, "Five more feet, I imagine. Then, I'll have to…I'll have to swing my weight to get to the door. Looks like it's mechanically closed. Pretty sure I could make it, but, even if I could swing myself to the ledge, I doubt I could open it once I get there."

"Fire a bullet at it—might come undone."

"Did you say 'might' or 'will'?"

"It _might_!" Alfred called back, and his voice echoed. "Hit the spot on the wall—this building was made by a half-wit architect; I imagine the strength of the walls is as flimsy as the electrical breaker boxes."

"I sure hope it works. What's the fucking point of crawling out of the elevator just to be stopped by a fucking door?" Sylvia muttered resentfully. "Do you have our guns?"

"Yes…."

"Where is it?"

"It's in my pants. Hold on…."

"Without context, that's pretty perverted, Alfred."

"Oh, go on!"

Sylvia watched Alfred let a hand loose from his grip on the rope and he quickly fumbled behind his back for one of their guns. Finding one, he held it up for her to take.

Sylvia slowly—like molasses running down a 120-degree incline—bent down so her feet were horizontally parallel with her neck and head.

"A bit of a contortionist, are you," chuckled Alfred.

"Just give me the fucking thing."

He handed it to her with a small stretch of his arm and she took it. Gathering herself back to normal height and stance, Sylvia aimed the gun. Not at the door, but in the spot where the button would be centered on the opposite side of the wall. After she shot at it a couple of times (the resounding gun fire echoing loudly enough that the two of them winced), there was a soft mechanical groan and then the door slowly opened as though it had to think twice about the action it was performing.

And a small sliver of optimism shined through.

No one was there.

Like a squirrel would hop from one tree to another, Sylvia bent her legs and then with no room to think of the consequences if she should fall, she took a long leap and caught herself; her fingers were the only thing keeping her adrift from falling down the tunnel to her demise.

"That's it!" He encouraged. "You've almost got it! Go on!"

Sylvia wiggled, planting her feet on the nearest metal ledge she could find and then shimmied herself up. Her hands on the floor, then her elbows, and she pulled herself up, breathing hard, but still very much alive.

"Okay…." She panted. "Now it's your turn!"

She crawled to the edge, and held out her hands, beckoning to him.

"Think like a squirrel." She suggested.

"Like a bloody squirrel…That's what it has come down to." Alfred mumbled. "Alright…Here I go…" He took a single leap and nearly missed until she caught his wrists, letting out a hard grunt herself.

"Stop wriggling! You're making this harder than necessary. Just stay fucking still and I'll pull you up the rest of the way."

"If I didn't know you were strong, I'd say you were crazy."

"Just don't move, okay?"

Alfred didn't exactly go dead weight but he didn't wriggle as he was instructed. Sylvia pulled him up and he was lying next to her in no time, red in the face, and nearly having a heart attack. Sylvia stood up, brushing her skirt from the dust and debris, and smiled at him happily.

"Should we continue on?" She offered, holding out her hand for him to take.

He took it and said candidly, "Once we're through with this, I'll be more than happy to buy you a drink, Liv."

Sylvia chuckled and they started on a run to the nearest staircase.

"We're gonna have to expect a few obstacles on the way, you know," She said, glancing at him as they descended towards the basement.

"Why is that?"

"We're on camera now," She noted unhappily, pointing at the nearest black orb settled in the corner of the ceiling.

"Oh, for a heaven's _sake_!"

"Hey, we're out the elevator. That's better than—"

She and Alfred stepped through two metal double doors. Right at that moment about five guards, all of whom were holding syringe needles grabbed them by their shoulders and pulled Alfred and Sylvia over the threshold of the entrance, and each were given enough tranquilizers to take down a horse.

**Chapter 4: Forgiven**

When she woke up, the room was spinning.

Or was _she_ spinning?

Sylvia opened her eyes carefully, noticing that the guards were gone, but around her were four familiar souls. Alfred, Bruce, Fox, and Jim. Like herself, they were drugged; Jim was strapped to a chair by the arms and legs, and he looked the worst between the five of them.

She quickly collected herself, getting to her feet, only to be outweighed by her unbalanced equilibrium and she went crashing back down to the concrete floor.

"What the fuck did they…oh, no... Alfred… _Alfred_ , wake up!" Sylvia said loudly, but in all reality, the words had been spoken barely above a whisper.

Nausea suddenly masked her dizziness. Sylvia picked herself off the ground, rushing to the nearest thing that looked like a sink and upchucked anything and everything that was left in her stomach. After dry heaving the last two minutes, she wiped her drool from her chin with the back of her hand, squinting through the blurriness until her vision became sharper, and noticed Jim was the only one in a chair.

Like her, he was groggy.

"Jim...fuck, _Jim_! Oh my god, are you okay!" Sylvia cried, running to him, and nearly stumbling over her own bare feet. She knelt down in front of him: "Oh my god, Jim, can you hear me? Jim…Jim! Say something!"

"Hi, Vee…." Jim groaned, squinting his eyes at her.

"Did they drug you?"

"Yes."

Sylvia glanced down at Bruce and Fox, shaking them awake.

"Guys, wake up!" She said hastily. "Wake up!"

Fox groaned, sitting up, and looked around just as Bruce did the same.

"My word…That was extremely unpleasant," He said logically, rubbing his head.

Bruce sat up as well, looking at Sylvia curiously before noticing the rest of them were around him. Alfred, who had managed to get through the dizzy spell without vomiting his lungs out, rose to his full stance.

"Can't imagine what they gave us," Alfred said dismally, rubbing his elbows. "Not exactly the gentlest of orderlies, were they?"

"Well, we're not dead." Sylvia reminded. "That's what's important."

"Why are you here?" Fox asked, getting up, glancing at Alfred and Sylvia. "How did you get in?"

"Posing as a guardsman," Alfred answered. "This one pretended to be a prisoner." He nodded his head at Sylvia. "She had _me_ fooled."

"Alfred!" Bruce exclaimed, and he quickly hugged the butler, who returned it whole-heartedly.

"Where's Strange?" Sylvia questioned the room. "Where is he?"

"We don't know. We were gassed," Fox answered.

Alfred chimed in: "Like us—we were caught in the hallway…."

"No—not _us_. Mr. Wayne and I were held up in some type of room, being questioned by a _lunatic_ who has, might I add, a bit of an obsession with riddles."

"Ed?" Sylvia suggested. She stepped towards Fox: "Why was Ed there?"

"He wasn't with us technically—he was playing a game." Bruce pitched. "Asked us questions, wanted to know what we knew about people who ran Indian Hill, Wayne Enterprises…."

"Apparently the answer 'Board of Directors' was not a satisfying answer," Fox said offhandedly, while he appeared seriously offended. "Who else _would_ run Wayne Enterprises?"

"And 'I don't know' is never sufficient," Sylvia stated, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "But did he seem okay when you saw him?"

"Why on Earth would that matter?" snapped Alfred, taking Bruce's shoulder and pulling him back to him protectively. "That lunatic damn near killed them!"

"If it was poisonous gas, they'd be dead already."

"But the fact remains—"

"—Let it go, Alfred—" Bruce suggested warily.

"—Master B and Lucius were put into a situation they needn't have been. I'm assuming you're trying to defend this inmate because he's a friend of yours?"

Sylvia said coolly, "It's complicated between us."

Fox asked curiously, "Is he a lover?"

"What!" She responded incredulously. "No, of course not!"

"That's an emphatic 'no' for a simple question," Fox noticed while Bruce and Alfred silently agreed.

"Fuck you!" Sylvia snapped at Fox, who looked unaffected by it. "My _love_ life isn't the thing in question here, guys, so you'd fuck off if you know what's good for you."

She strode past them and stood before Jim, who looked at her sadly.

"Are you okay, Jimmy?" She said softly; it was a 180-degree change in her voice from when she had spoken to the other three.

"No."

"Did they drug you?" Fox asked.

"Yes. They drugged me. Made me talk."

"About Wayne Enterprises?" Bruce assumed as he undid Jim's restraints.

"About Wayne Enterprises, about everything…." Jim said unhappily. He suddenly took Bruce's arm. "I never should have made that oath to you. I was arrogant and naive. I'm sorry. I tried to do the right thing" (Bruce, Fox, Alfred, and Sylvia exchanged odd glances) "but what a _fool_ I've been."

Fox cleared his throat and said gingerly, "Mr. Gordon, what kind of drugs did they give you?"

"Honesty serum. Strange said it was 'honesty serum'."

"Potions that make you tell the truth," Sylvia muttered as she finished untying the one restraint around his legs. "Back then, we used to just torture people until they gave us what we needed. This world is getting soft, isn't it, buddy?"

"Vee—"

"—Not now, Jim—"

"— _Vee—_ "

"—I said ' _not now_ '!" She interrupted him, putting a hand over his mouth. "There will be plenty of time for you to tell me the truth about whatever you feel it is that I don't already know about, but first we need to find Strange."

She freed his mouth so she could bend down and untie the other restraint on his leg.

"Vee, I'm sorry I wasn't there for the times you needed me," Jim continued, ignoring her comments from earlier. "I wanted to be the brother you wanted me to be, but I can't…not always, but I should have been there for your wedding, but I let my pride get the best of me."

"Seriously, Jim, you can stop." Sylvia said curtly, as she stood. "I already know that stuff. Trust me. I _know_ you."

"You're the only woman that hasn't abandoned me," Jim said quietly, looking at her with puppy dog eyes. "The truth is that I know no matter what I do to you, you'll always be there for me. Sometimes, I take advantage of that, and I manipulate it to my own benefit, and I'm sorry…."

"I already knew _that_ too. Seriously, there's nothing you can tell me that I haven't already figured out for myself."

"I know when I find Lee. I'm sure she'll have found someone else. That hurts, but then I think: 'well, another one is gone, she'll be happier without me'. But it doesn't hurt _as_ much, because I know I'll have you; I know you got my back...no matter what I do."

"…Jim…."

He stood in front of her and said softly, "I really don't know where our mom went after they divorced. I'm not sure if she died or—or what—but I know that since she has been gone, I see you differently. Not like a sister... You've been a maternal figure to me more than her, even when she was still around."

"Okay, stop." Sylvia urged, putting a hand over his mouth. "You're freaking me out with your confessions, okay? Like, seriously…Hush, _please_."

Meanwhile, Fox, Bruce, and Alfred exchanged looks that consisted of confusion, doubt, and discomfort.

"I hate it because I took our parents for granted," Jim rambled, taking Sylvia's hand from his mouth, "I took them for granted, thought they were immortal. And you're right, Vee. You're _right_. I felt like I was the favorite…You were always in my shadow, and I didn't notice until a lot later."

" _Jim_."

"I love you a great deal," He wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug. "More than I will ever love anyone else...more than I love myself..."

"But you hate yourself. So, that's not much of a compliment."

"I just love you a lot, and I want you to know that."

"Okay, Care Bear." She patted his shoulders, and pushed him away from her gently. "As much as I like hearing you grovel for my affection and apologizing to me, I can't be this close to you right now, okay?"

He looked at her, confused.

"The police thought you checked in with them. Strange sent one his puppies to the GCPD, and you can ask Alfred—they looked _just_ like you. Acted like you…Well, for the most part."

"What do you mean 'for the most part'?" Fox asked curiously.

Sylvia didn't say it, as if the actual vocalization of it would make her puke.

Instead, Alfred piped up: "That impostor kissed her."

"Like on the cheek?" Bruce assumed.

"With his tongue," Alfred answered, shuddering with disgust.

Fox, Bruce, and Jim looked completely appalled, glancing at Sylvia in turn.

" _Needless_ to say," Sylvia managed, "that's ultimately how Harvey and all of them figured out you weren't—well— _you_. I had a feeling you weren't you when you called me 'doll', 'sugar bean', and 'sweet thing'. Yet, he couldn't remember that you" (She pointed to him cleverly) "called me 'Vee'. Must have been the only thing Strange or whatever-he-was didn't know about the one and only James Gordon. Suffice to say, it was a bit aggravating talking to Not-You."

Jim rubbed his head and said softly, "Well, I'm glad you're okay."

"I'm okay, just...for now...keep your distance."

Fox turned to Alfred: "When did you find out that we never left Arkham?"

"I knew immediately, but getting here wasn't exactly the easiest thing in the world. Little Frumpkin just blew through the highway like she was driving a tank, instead of my car."

"Hey, don't talk smack about me—We got out of there _alive_ ," Sylvia reminded loudly.

"Then we were stuck in the bloody elevator for a while," Alfred continued. He addressed Jim with a mixture of admiration and incredibility: "I don't know how you two grew up without killing each other. This one could be _really_ argumentative."

"You chose to go down that bumpy road, Jeeves. You didn't _have_ to argue with me." Sylvia noted wryly, smirking at him.

"On a contrary, I'm sure I did. How your husband deals with your quibbles is beyond me."

"Well, my quibbles tend to lie parallel to his own agenda about nine out of ten times; those are pretty damn good odds."

"I find it admirable that you are able to bat away every cynical remark I have about your personality."

"Whatever, Alfred." Sylvia sighed, rolling her eyes. She looked at Jim: "What are we going to do now?"

"I need some water." Jim muttered.

"Is that a fact?"

"Well," Bruce uttered pointedly, "he _can_ only tell the truth right now, so..."

Alfred patted Bruce on the back, saying, "Don't start in with that one, Master B, trust me," when Sylvia sent the two of them a cold glance.

After a few minutes had passed where most of the drug had been worked out of their system. They all stood in a circle, contemplating their decisions that led them up to this moment. Two orderlies dressed in white garb came strutting in, holding a young girl by the arm. When she was finally let go, Sylvia noticed her on sight.

It was Selina, or 'Cat', as she preferred to be called.

She looked directly at Bruce: "You."

Glancing at them all, he took the initiative and walked towards her. They spoke in low voices.

"What the hell is this room anyway?" Sylvia questioned. "Is it a closet, a kitchen…Can't be a torture room, I don't see a rack anywhere."

"Who was the imposter?" Jim inquired, looking at her curiously.

"Some guy. I don't know. Didn't really care to find out more."

"Was Harvey fooled?"

"Are you kidding!" Alfred said harshly. "If it was left up to him, you'd still be here and we'd still be chasing our tails, looking for the lot of you! Luckily, Sylvia was there."

"The only person around or alive that would have known Jim wasn't acting like himself would've been Babs. Kinda cold in this room," Sylvia mused as she glanced at her own bare feet.

"Who is 'Babs'?" Fox questioned.

"Miss Kean," Alfred clarified.

"Jimmy Boy's former flame," Sylvia said with crooked grin.

"Right." Jim mumbled.

"What are they talking about, do you wonder?" Fox asked, eying Bruce and Selina indicatively.

"Who knows: true love is an enigma." Sylvia sighed, smiling genuinely at the young lovers.

"Speaking of E's and 'Nygmas'," Fox said unhappily.

"Don't start."

"He wouldn't be around," Jim said knowingly. "Strange probably put him back in his cell."

Selina suddenly left with the two guards and Bruce turned to them, looking more troubled than ever.

"What'd she say?" Jim asked.

"She'll do what she likes. And….there's a bomb."

"I imagine that last part should have come first, don't you think, son?" Sylvia contemplated. "And here we were worried we'd die of starvation and dehydration in a fucking elevator. This certainly puts things into perspective."

"Well, _no_ _amount_ of cannibalism would save you after being detonated, would it?" Alfred remarked. "So, you might as well get that idea out of your head instantly."

Fox glanced between them unsteadily and said, "Starvation, dehydration, _cannibalism—_ What kind of conversations were you two having before?"

"One of survival. You're not on the menu," Sylvia joked. "You've nothing to worry about."

"Grand." Fox remarked, although not so enthusiastically.

"So, we're in here while there's a bomb going on," said Alfred, looking at Bruce. "What are we to do until then? Wait for her to come back?"

"She'd have a plan," He answered calmly. "She always does."

"And if the bombs go off _before_ she comes back?" Fox offered.

Alfred sighed, "Then we'll die here, won't we?"

Sylvia glared at Alfred, and the rest of them: "You all may die here, but _I_ certainly am _not_. I _just_ reunited with my husband, and if you think Strange is going to be the reason why I have to call Oswald and tell him I'm not coming back, then you all have another thing coming!"

"But—" Bruce began.

Alfred pulled him back: "Actually, let her steam a while. She thinks best when she's miffed."

Excluding Sylvia, of course, all of them turned to Jim for confirmation and the man shrugged—they knew the answer already anyway. An alarm started going off above.

Sylvia was just about to leave until Selina stormed through the doors, smiling.

"What's going on?" Bruce asked.

Selina returned, "Simple psychology. I was just waiting for the right moment."

They followed her through the doors, to a cafeteria, where Victor Fries and someone who could only be Bridgit Pike back from the dead having an ice-and-fire fight across a set of tables with Dr. Hugo Strange standing in the back, looking on with horror.

_Fifteen Minutes to Detonation._

The P.A. system above spoke in a flat tone.

That prompted Strange to look up in fear and then, as though deciding now would be the best time to get going, he stood and ran. When he did, Freeze and Firefly caught the movement and threw their preferential element at each other, locking the doctor in as a median. The man fell flat on his back when he'd gotten enough of a dose to vaporize a dog.

"If he doesn't die from that, I'd be surprised," Sylvia said amusedly.

Firefly and Freeze exchanged regrettable expressions. After all. In some ways, he was 'Father'.

Jim was on Hugo Strange, hitting him a few times before Strange woke up. Seeing Jim, he smiled. Seeing Sylvia, his smile retracted a little.

"Well, it seems that my plan may have gone awry," He drawled.

"Forget surprise," muttered Sylvia. "Now, I'm just damn near disappointed."

"You could say that." Jim said to Strange with a sarcastic smile. "Now, I'm going to stand you up. When I do, you're going to show us a tour of your secret lab."

"No, no!" Strange squeaked, shaking in his shoes.

"You don't have a choice!"

Strange was pulled to his feet.

Jim said offhandedly, "It's this way, right?"

"We can't go down there!" Strange insisted fearfully. "We can't! I set a bomb! The lab is going to blow up! We have to get out of here! In ten minutes, everything within a quarter mile of radius will be _dust_."

"That's madness," said Jim, switching serious glances with Sylvia, then looking at Strange, who was slowly losing his composure.

" _If you want to live—which I do **frankly—**_ we had better leave!" Strange responded strongly.

"We detected a radioactive material down there," Fox said coolly, "You got it out first, right?"

"There wasn't enough time! They forced my hand, but by my calculations, the chance of a radioactive cloud is fairly low."

"If you're wrong, thousands of people could die."

"Yes, yes, yes, but paying that price will be better than releasing what's _down_ there."

"How do we shut it down?" Jim demanded.

"The security walls are up—the lab is sealed—"

"—There must be someway in—"

"—Please, we have to _go!_ We have to leave now!"

Having had enough of his pleas, Jim grabbed Strange by the collar and threatened, "You tell me how to get that bomb and shut it off or I'll batter you to death right now!"

Sylvia looked on with pride.

Strange confessed helplessly, "In which case, young man, I suppose I will have to die."

Sylvia strode up to him saying, "I'll gladly indulge."

"Vee—"

"Jim, if there's no way of disarming a bomb, I'm going to get my jollies in before I fucking die. Aside from torturing my husband and nearly ruining my marriage, I think I'm a _little_ entitled to kill the weasel, don't **you**!"

Everyone's face looked troubled—as needed—until Selina chimed in, "Wait! Nygma knows a way down there!"

Sensing the doc was a lost cause, Jim let Strange be. He turned to Fox, saying, "Could use some help…."

"You got me." He said dutifully.

Jim spoke to Selina and Bruce, saying, "You two. You've got nine minutes. Get as far from here as possible. Alfred—" (Jim turned to the butler) "—get them out of here, no matter what happens."

Alfred pushed Bruce and Selina out of the doors even though Bruce was fiercely protesting.

Jim looked at Sylvia.

"No!" She immediately fired. "If you think even for a second that I'm leaving—"

"For once, I need you to stay," Jim said quickly.

"Oh, now I need to know why."

"You need to know why?"

"Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't, but you've never once asked me to stay when my life and yours are threatened. So yes, I'd like to know."

"Nygma won't budge for me, but for you, I know he'd move mountains."

"That's sweet."

"Could we—" Fox insisted, gesticulating for them to move forward with the impromptu plan.

The three went sprinting down the hall way with Sylvia leading the way to Ed's cell, taking down any guard that tried to disrupt their mission. When one guard did, she knocked him out cold, took his keys, and fled down the hall. The other two were louder, considering they wore shoes; hers were still sitting in the stuck elevator.

When she opened Ed's cell, he looked perplexed at first, then he smiled.

"I'll tell you what's happening," Sylvia said breathlessly. "But first, you have to come with me."

Jim and Fox arrived shortly behind her. Ed glanced at them with a frown: "Liv?"

"Just come with me!" She snapped, grabbing his arm and running down the hall.

They stopped shortly at a dead end, where, presumably, was the entrance to Strange's lab. Sensing the urgency, Ed hastily pulled up a panel.

"What do I get if I do it?" He asked Jim.

"You get to live!" Jim returned coldly.

Ed looked less than ready to appease the detective, but Sylvia hushed Jim, which made Ed happier. After she silenced him, she put her hand on Ed's face.

"If you do this for me, we're even."

"This will account for framing Gordon?"

Jim suppressed a snarl, but Sylvia nodded, saying, "Yes. Now, _please_...We don't have much time."

Ed picked the lock, and it opened. Fox leapt forward, but Jim stayed behind.

"You need to get as far from here as possible." Jim warned.

"I know the stakes." Sylvia reassured.

Jim joined Fox in the elevator shaft and they made their way down to the basement. When they had gone, Sylvia turned to Ed, who watched expectantly.

"We need to get out."

"Out? why—"

"Strange made a bomb."

"A _bomb—_ "

"—Yes, a bomb. And it is set to go off in ten minutes. Less than ten, actually."

"Oh, just _great_ ," Ed growled.

"Stop _pouting_ and come with me!"

And just as she was headed down the hallway with all of the cells, including Ed's, two guards came up, including the one who had seen her in handcuffs about to be admitted. Recognizing her from earlier, it didn't take long for him and the other guard to push them into Ed's cell, lock it, and then walk away as though they couldn't hear the alarm blaring above.

Sylvia hammered on the door, shouting, "I'm not even a fucking patient, you fuckers! GET ME OUT!"

Ed sighed, looking at the ceiling, "This would be my luck."

"What _luck_?" She asked, sitting against the door hopelessly. "This isn't exactly an ideal situation for me either."

"I wasn't talking about the bomb. There finally was a way to make it up to you, so you could forgive me for framing your brother—"

"—And killing one of the Strike Force—"

"—That too…." Ed readily agreed. "Once I accomplished that….Well, it doesn't matter anyway."

The P.A. System updated with the new detonation count down but Sylvia made a point to ignore it. She didn't want a countdown if her life was going to end. She'd prefer it to be a surprise.

She leaned her back against the door, sinking down, sitting beside him.

She looked at him, saying, "I did forgive you. You know."

"Did you?"

"I have."

"It's not because we're about to die, is it?" He asked, unconvinced. "Things change when one's life is at stake. Feelings get stronger, stakes are higher…."

"Would it make a difference if I told you that I forgave you long before you opened Strange's lab."

"Why are you smiling? We're about to die, Liv." Ed said tiredly. "Wait, what did you say?"

Sylvia stood; Ed did too.

"You've done some atrocious things," She cared to acknowledged. "You killed Kristen, and Officer Dougherty; you framed my brother for a crime that _I_ committed...put Bruce and Fox in a room and then tried poisoning them—a lot of that should bother me."

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"It does," Sylvia conceded, nodding. "But only where my brother is concerned. You put his life at stake, and then pretended to be my friend."

"Not to rehash old arguments, but I wasn't pretending."

Sylvia stared at him, contemplating whether or not she wanted to get into that debate or not, but owing to the fact that they had very little time to get their feelings out to the open, she decided to ignore his comment.

"You've hurt me enough in the past that I would be able to kill you and not feel too bad about it. At least not a couple months from now."

"So you _would_ feel bad for a little if you killed me, then."

Sylvia chuckled, "And that's your silver lining? Really?"

Ed looked at her with a mild annoyance, "Liv, we're going to die in a nuke. You might as well cut the bit and get to the point, please?"

"I _know_ you," She said lightly. "I knew you back when you were just Ed: The Forensic Guy. You were nervous, awkward, and you had never killed a soul. In some ways, I think I helped you into becoming...well, whatever it is you claim to be. You're a part of me, a friend that I wouldn't find anywhere else in the world. You're quite possibly my _best_ friend. Just being able to say that…."

_Two minutes until detonation._

"Are we okay, then?" Ed questioned.

Sylvia smiled, holding out her hand. He shook it.

"Great," He said with a quirky smile. "Forgiveness is always good to have just before we die."

And then…No bomb. No detonation of any kind.

"It's been more than two minutes," Ed mumbled.

"I guess Jim got to it before it could explode."

"Clever Jimbo."

"Watch that tone of yours when you're talking about my brother."

Feeling it best not to press his luck, Ed smiled innocently. Then they hugged. But there was a stern side to the hug as Sylvia drew back and her eyes bore into his.

"Let this be a warning to you."

"Yes?"

"If you go after my family again—any of them—you and I will no longer be friends."

Ed said logically, "'Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.' Is that about it?"

"That's exactly right."

The door opened; it was a guard, who looked at the both of them, saying, "Accountability for all the inmates." He pointed to Sylvia: "You're not a patient, are you?"

"That's correct."

"Get out of here, then."

"Roger that." Sylvia sighed, getting to her feet. She smiled sweetly at Ed, who waved at her. "See you later, Eddy."

"Bye, Liv!"

And the door closed on her way out.

**Chapter 5: The Past Can Leave A Nasty Scar**

In _Lean On Vee's_ , Sylvia stood on the stage. Per the Friday night schedule, she made a habit of standing in the spot light, singing. Aside from the clinking of drinks, the clatter of eating utensils on dinnerware, there was no other sounds except for the pianist that played and Sylvia's voice in the microphone. The song of the night: 'Set The Fire To The Third Bar' by Snow Patrol.

" _I find the map and draw a straight line_

_Over rivers, farms, and state lines_

_The distance from A to where you'd be_

_It's only finger lengths that I see."_

In the front of the audience was her regular attendee, her husband, Oswald. Lavish in his custom-fitted suits, he occupied one of the mahogany armchairs seated at a circular table; one hand holding a glass of red wine while the other was balanced atop a penguin-shaped handle of his cane.

He'd never missed any of her performances, even back in the days when Falcone or Maroni (whichever he'd acclaimed his loyalty to on the occasion) was demanding his advice or his presence.

" _I touch the place_

_Where I'd find your face_

_My fingers in creases_

_Of distant, dark places."_

Sitting adjacent to Oswald was Butch Gilzean.

Ever since he and Oswald had joined ranks to kill Galavan (or 'Azrael' as the newspapers liked to embellish), Butch was by his side, just like in the old days. Despite the ramifications that had followed while Butch was playing pet to his now fully conscious, ex-girlfriend, Tabitha, all things had been forgiven under circumstances provided: Butch was working for Penguin, so—naturally—he and Sylvia had to put their past debacles aside in order for work to take precedence.

Even if Butch hadn't been working for Penguin, odds are Sylvia still would've forgiven him. After all, they'd been good friends—even when Fish had carved the very symbol of her old club in Sylvia's collar bone; while the mark had faded into nothing but a hardly noticeable scar, it had left a lasting impression on the singer. The only satisfaction Sylvia had gotten at the time was equating Fish's mark to one of her own; Sylvia had bit the woman on the thigh, and unknown to her, Falcone's ex-underling still bore the mark of her hateful passion.

Butch's feelings for Sylvia were purely platonic. He'd watched her grow from being Fish's underling (on the same level as Oswald had been as her umbrella boy), then steadily had made her way up the ranks just as Oswald had. Butch was certain that if Sylvia ever had the ambition, she could outlast Penguin and become the One Ruler of Gotham's underbelly...after all, she'd done it for a period of time all alone back when Penguin was still under the impression that he had rehabilitated under Dr. Hugo Strange's brainwashing.

But for all her ambition, charisma, and her ability to bench press 300 pounds, Sylvia's only weakness was her husband. And that seemed to balance her out fairly well.

Sylvia smiled as she started the second verse:

" _I hang my coat up in the first bar_

_There is no peace that I've found so far_

_The laughter penetrates my silence_

_As drunken men find flaws in science."_

Hidden behind the audience, the waiters and waitresses, the patrons and the body guards, was a man. His attire was all black, including the leather jacket he wore, and his boots. Arms crossed over his chest like the brooding former detective that he was, Jim Gordon stood with his back against the wall, watching his sister's performance.

Back when they were kids, Jim remembered when Sylvia had tried out to be in the chorus, or had even attempted to become a member of the Dance Team. Back then, she had little to no confidence; what little she had, Jim had remembered that their father had been especially hard on her dreams. Their father's criticism at his only daughter's wish to become a performer instead of something practical like—say—a lawyer, police officer, or a military member had evaporated whatever confidence and ambitions Sylvia had left.

Years having gone by, it was Oswald who had encouraged her to sing on stage, and it was by his affluence of attaining a night club that Sylvia finally did.

And she blew the audience away with not only her voice but with her charm. And then later, her talent to not just keep up with choreography but to create it as well.

And for Jim, who had followed the path of practicality, he found himself being a bounty hunter more than cop or detective. So, if their father ever lived to see the day when his starlet was performing at clubs (even ones that served lesser characters) while his son was a bounty hunter, Jim wondered if he'd still be proud or disappointed.

" _Their words mostly noises_

_Ghosts with just voices_

_Your words in my memory_

_Are like music to me."_

Whatever the case, Jim could say _he_ was proud. After all, Sylvia was living her dream.

" _And miles from where you are_

_I lay down on that cold ground, I_

_I pray that something picks me up_

_And sets me down in your warm arms."_

Sylvia stepped a little way from the microphone and gave the attention to the pianist, whose turn it was to sing a verse and a chorus.

Delilah strode to the edge of the stage where Sylvia met her, looking concerned. The young woman was Goth, wearing clothes resembling her style. A mysterious, darkened beauty, Delilah was not just a bar maid or Sylvia's financial head; she was a businesswoman, and Sylvia's second-in-command.

Discreetly, Delilah leaned forward, looking up at Sylvia, who bent down at the waist to listen to her. Whatever Delilah had to say made Sylvia's nose wrinkle in disgust but just as quickly as the repulsion had come, it left her face immediately. She gestured towards the back where Jim stood, and Delilah followed the path where her finger pointed, and nodded dutifully.

Oswald watched the two women speak. His curiosity was only piqued when Delilah quickly strode away from the audience's vision, skimming past them and clinging to the club's walls as she briskly walked to meet Jim in the back, who received her expectantly.

Sylvia was back on the mic, attracting whatever attention had been divided. She sang:

" _And miles from where you are_

_I lay down on the cold ground and I_

_I pray that something picks me up_

_and sets me down in your warms."_

Once the piano had struck its last softest chord, the audience erupted into a standing ovation, Oswald included.

"Thank you, thank you," Sylvia said happily. "Thank you! I enjoyed spending this time with you tonight—"

"WE LOVE YOU! WOO!"

"Settle down, Dagger." She chuckled. "That's one of my men from the back—he's enthusiastic, can't you tell?"

The audience tittered.

"Like always, I'll be performing again next Friday night, and you all are more than welcome to attend. As of now, I'll be giving the stage to the pianist, Michael Dugen...Michael, if you would..." (She handed the microphone to the pianist) "Not only is he a musician, but he's also a comic. So, we'll no doubt have a laugh or at least a cruel chuckle before the night is out!"

The audience clapped again and Michael took the stage while Sylvia, wearing a lavender-colored ballgown, lifted the dress just enough so she could find her way down the stage's steps without falling on her ass. At the bottom, she smiled sweetly at Oswald, who had met her halfway.

"You were magnificent, as always," He complimented.

He and Sylvia exchanged a gentle kiss.

"Wasn't she, Butch?"

"Yeah. A ringer, as always." Butch said, getting up from the table and meeting the two of them on the floor. "What was that little girl talking to you about?"

"Delilah?" Sylvia's smile faltered as she replied, "Nothing much. One of the guests saw one of Strange's monsters outside, and they wanted to call the police. Delilah brought the information to me first, and I sent her to Jim."

"How _is_ Gordon?" Butch said curiously, crossing his arms. "I've not seen him in a while."

"He was just here. Standing in the back."

Butch turned but Jim wasn't there. He blinked, confused.

"Your observational skills must be off," She teased. "He _was_ standing there though, before Delilah passed on the message."

"He's a bounty hunter these days?"

"Yep. Hunting for bounty..."

"He's not a cop anymore?"

"Not for the moment."

"The GCPD don't want him?"

"Quite the opposite. They're begging for him to come back but he doesn't want to be a cop for the moment. You know, loose ends to tie, fish to fry—that type of thing. You are just _full_ of questions, aren't you?"

Embarrassed by her statement of the obvious, Butch smiled weakly. Oswald eased his mortification, saying, "Butch, would you give us a moment?"

"Sure thing, Boss. I'll go check out that buffet—looks like there's still some stuffed shrimp…"

He quickly hopped to it, leaving Sylvia and Oswald alone.

After he was gone, Oswald sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

"He's still heartbroken?" She questioned knowingly.

"Fragile as they come," Oswald sighed with a hint of annoyance. "It's been three months for god's sake."

"Tabitha wrangled her way into his brain in order to fix him, remember? Maybe along the way, she found a way inside his heart too. You never know…."

A waiter came by, offering a platter of drinks. Sylvia thanked him, taking a glass of champagne off the silver plate, and the waiter smiled as though he had been given three raises in a single go. As the waiter continued to serve other patrons, Sylvia took a sip while Oswald watched her, almost distractedly.

"Brainwashing is a mysterious thing all on its own." She continued compassionately. "Butch just needs to get into the dating world. With a guy like him, though, it might warrant a shove."

"I'm not fixing him up with anyone, if that's what you're implying. I'm no match maker."

"Wouldn't expect you to be, lover." Sylvia replied, winking at him. "Provided that this is what you want. As long as Butch is holding out for the day that Tabitha changes her mind and leaves Barbara— _that_ old love triangle—then you've got _this"_ (She nodded her head to the side to indicate Butch) "to work with until then. Personally, I'd have enjoyed it more if she just stayed in a coma...that would have been more satisfying."

"I doubt it."

"Doubt?" She responded, lowering her glass of champagne in surprise. "Why?"

Oswald said lovingly, "Satisfaction isn't in your nature."

"Oh, like it's in _yours_?"

"Pigeon, for the moment, I'm content."

"And if you weren't?"

"You would know."

"I'm sure I would. What if I was the cause of your lack of contentment?"

"That's hardly ever the case."

"Oh, so I'm the _reason_ behind your satisfaction?"

"You always are."

"That's a provocative thought."

"Titillating, at the very least," Oswald agreed.

He couldn't help but take in Sylvia's appearance; the way all of her ginger hair was pulled to one shoulder so that in her strapless gown, her skin was exposed for everyone to admire. In the alternating sunshine colored lights as well as the indigo-colored bulbs above, it was making Oswald think of the dirtiest things he could be doing to her now rather than standing in this professional atmosphere and having to behave as such.

In any other time, Oswald would have taken her against the wall, show her just how 'provocative' his thoughts could be, but when it came to business—even in what used to be his own club—there was a demand for civility.

In an attempt to push away the obtrusive (although exceedingly satisfying) inappropriate thoughts he had, Oswald cleared his throat and Sylvia looked at him with a business-like smile, although it shrouded her mischief as well as he could hide his own.

"How has Delilah been doing?"

"Training her has been a cinch. She works diligently during duty hours—a few times I've come in and she was still here. It's damn near miraculous."

"A much better choice than that Brittany girl," Oswald said bitterly.

"If it wasn't for her going behind my back, I would have kept her. Instead...well, I had to fire her."

"You shot her in the face."

"She went behind my _back_ , Oz. It seemed to be the only logical thing to do. If I hadn't caught her before, I would have been neck-deep in betrayal from the other Families."

"You couldn't predict that."

"No, you're right. But I wasn't about to let it happen, if it _could_ happen," Sylvia said darkly. "Brittany wasn't anywhere ready to take on this type of business; she was easily twisted by Drake Anderson—"

"—Yet another, you've killed—"

"—He also went behind my back!"

"I'm sensing a pattern here."

"Sweetie, you know if I had any other alternative, I would have taken it," Sylvia said defensively. "I loved her like a sister. But Brittany _chose_ to go behind my back—she wasn't asked to or forced to do it. And she was going to use _my_ brother's file to undermine me, to undermine _us_ , and I simply wouldn't have it."

"And killing the youngest Anderson?"

"He was a misogynistic asshole. If I hadn't killed him, someone would have."

"What exactly did he do that warranted a death sentence?"

"He tried convincing the other Families to go against me, as you very well know."

"Honey, I doubt any of them would've been persuaded by someone as ditsy as that woman."

"I'm not saying that they would have. They believed that Drake Anderson wouldn't have been able to sway the other families to do as they're told."

"So, killing Drake was...?"

" _Warranted_ ," Sylvia answered, looking at him offensively. "If I hadn't, he would still be planting seeds of treachery and then _you_ would have to deal with him. Personally, I think it all paid out in the end. He wouldn't have been able to lead the families, and even if he could have, someone would have rebelled against him, leading to his death _anyway_. His demise was inevitable."

"You honestly think that someone would have stood up to him, if he'd taken control?"

"Of course."

"Why?" He asked, genuinely curious.

"While you were still under Strange's manipulation, _I_ was in control. I've gained a lot of respect from people, you know. In between running my club and keeping the Underworld out of the hands of people like _Tabitha Galavan,_ I was also juggling my brother's problems. Through all of that, I'm certain I'd have gained enough friends, who would have taken down Drake Anderson the _moment_ he dared to contest you, me, or anyone else that's on our side."

Oswald considered this, and seeing her side of things, he hadn't anything else to debate.

In the time where Elijah Van Dahl had still been alive and Oswald was under Strange's brainwashing, she had proven herself more than ten times over that she was capable of ruling by herself. It not only reassured Oswald that if something ever happened to him that his kingdom would still be in good hands, but the revelation had also allowed room in his mind for a single, suspicious inkling: If he and Sylvia were no longer together, she had enough power and loyalty from the captains and foot soldiers to silence what voice he had.

If it was Sylvia's wish, Oswald could be turned out and left with nothing but himself.

Now, _that_ was a scary thought. Not titillating in the least.

"Do you need any more staff?"

He had to force the petty thought out of his head….after all, she loved him far too much to do such a treacherous thing.

He was already feeling remorse for having been gone as long as he had while Sylvia had kept the kingdom from toppling over his in absence. Now, he was already imagining her betrayal? How little he must have thought of her for a terrible thought to even put its foot through the door!

"I think I have enough," Sylvia returned contentedly, nodding her head as she observed the club's active conversation. "I'm working at full capacity. There might be room enough for another bouncer if the Regulars don't start behaving themselves, but it's quaint for the moment."

"If you find yourself short-staffed—"

"I know I can always come to my boss."

Oswald and Sylvia exchanged amused expressions prior to Butch entering the conversation with a full plate. He offered them a chicken wing each; both politely declined.

The amusement between Oswald and Sylvia settled on a single notion: all-in-all, she preferred to be his subservient for mainly two reasons: A) She liked it...she even admitted that she got off on the idea of just working for him. And B) While Sylvia was a great leader, and had clearly proven herself to be successful in any managerial position—whatever the circumstance—she did _not_ want to lead 24/7.

So, while even though Oswald guiltily suspected that Sylvia could kick him out of his own kingdom, the knowledge of Sylvia not wanting to rule predominantly was what settled his paranoia. That, and her love for him outweighed any hunger she might have for power.

Shortly after Delilah had left and reported the finding of Strange's monster to Jim, she'd come back and smiled plainly as she stood beside Sylvia.

"Did Jim…?"

Delilah nodded as she reassured her, "He seemed happy enough to go after the thing."

"Good. You didn't call the police, did you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Good girl." Sylvia praised, patting the girl's back.

"Even if I had, what good would it have done anyway?" Delilah responded, smiling cynically at Oswald and Butch, who shared her skepticism.

Sylvia asked her, "What's on your schedule for the rest of the day?"

"Just business."

"Don't you have a date or something?" Butch asked, looking at Delilah.

"Fuck, no." She answered coolly. "Have _you_ tried dating in this city? It's a goddamn madhouse."

"Well, I can tell you've been hanging around Liv a lot," Butch muttered. "You've got the mouth for it."

"I had the mouth before I ever applied for this job—you can bet your ass on _that_ , buddy."

With a flick of her raven hair to prove a point, Delilah left the circle so she could scold one of the bartenders who had unwittingly left the cash box out for anyone to take. Her shrill voice wasn't easily ignored.

Oswald said pointedly, "Well, she certainly has the personality for the job."

" _You're a fucking moron_!" Delilah insulted the bartender.

"Excuse me." Sylvia pardoned, forcing a smile.

Butch and Oswald watched Sylvia dismiss the bartender who, with a great sigh of relief, quickly left his post so she could reprimand Delilah for berating the staff.

"The learning curve is high in this place," Butch cared to note.

Oswald didn't acknowledge him with a response. At some point, Delilah was remorseful and to Sylvia's satisfaction, the young lady called the bartender over and apologized for her coarse criticisms. Shortly after, Sylvia rejoined the circle and smiled happily at Butch and Oswald.

"How's your training with Bell?" asked Butch curiously.

"Mr. Bell has been under the weather." Sylvia answered, rubbing her sore neck. "I think he might've caught some kind of flu when he went home for the summer."

"Where did he go?"

"Nebraska."

"Who's there?"

"He has two grandchildren," Sylvia explained. "A little girl and a boy. Contrary to what I may seem, I _do_ let my staff go home and see their families."

"No one said—"

Oswald smiled amusedly: "She's just teasing, Butch. Settle down."

Butch cleared his throat, obviously trying to hide how quickly he'd become defensive.

Sylvia said lightly, "Since he's come back from Nebraska, he's been coughing, sneezing—the works. Last night, he could barely stand to make soup."

"He couldn't cook?"

"No, Butch. He couldn't _stand_."

"Oh..."

"And since he can't stand, I didn't think it was reasonable to make him train me. Personally, I think it's just a facade. He's running out of things to teach me, so he's pretending to be sick to bide his time."

"Do you plan on disposing him? Once he has nothing else to teach you, are you firing him?"

"Why would I do that?" Sylvia questioned, clearly offended. "He's more than just my trainer or a manservant. He's a _friend_."

"Well, after what you did to Brittany—"

"Let's not argue _here._ " Oswald interrupted, before she could irately respond. "Butch, why don't you get ready to leave? We have more business to conduct before time gets away from us. Hmm?"

Butch nodded and he left the club. Oswald watched him go then looked at Sylvia, who was mildly irritated. She drank the rest of her champagne and sat it on the table nearest to them, before she turned to him inquisitively.

"'Business'? What business?"

"I told you what happened after I found the bus that was allegedly carrying Strange, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you said Fish came up behind you. Scared the crap out of you. You fainted, and she—for whatever reason—spared your life."

"I'm still looking for her," Oswald explained. He placed two hands on the top of his cane, adding, "Her sudden disappearance has been unsettling."

"Well, this is a woman you killed. I'm sorry…. 'killed'," Sylvia said with an impish grin. "Sure, it's a little irksome, but if you didn't find it unsettling, I'd be _more_ concerned with your need for self-preservation."

"Don't poke fun, Pigeon."

"Fine. Fine." She raised her hands at shoulder-level. "I'm done joking. So, you don't know where she is. What business are you tending to?"

"I'll be pulling all my resources. From the Families to the Narrows—someone will have seen her."

"I could talk to Jim."

"Don't."

"Excuse me?"

Oswald stepped closer to Sylvia, who looked at him with a reproachful expression.

"I know you love him. He's your brother—"

"—And _your_ brother-in-law, don't forget—"

"—Believe me, I haven't." Oswald more than reassured, although his tone had a hint of disparagement.

"He would know better than anyone else where Fish could be. Yet, you don't want me to talk to him?"

"Anytime you two are together, you _somehow_ get pulled into whatever chaos he is facing. There will come a day when he needs you, and being the caring sibling that you are, you will go to help him, and more than likely end up in a much more dangerous situation you won't be able to get out of. When that day comes, you'll leave, but you will not come back."

"You're worried." Sylvia noted, unable to hide her smile. "After all this time, you're still worrying about me?"

"Your safety is one of my deepest concerns."

"And that's all nice and everything, but—"

"—I'll be blunt. With Strange's monsters lurking around, I don't want you anywhere near your brother."

Sylvia's smile disappeared.

"Oz, you're not going to keep me from seeing my family."

"I _am_ your family—"

"—Well, so is _he_." She argued, stepping a foot closer to Oswald. "You may be my husband, and you _may_ be my boss, but I'm not going to stand here and let _you_ decide when or when I can't see my own brother."

"Pigeon—"

"Don't you 'Pigeon' me. That's not going to work."

"I'm only looking out for y—"

"—I know—"

"—your safety is my top priority—"

"—I'm going to be fine!"

"Eventually, you're going to get hurt—"

"—You're _not_ going to tell me what I can or can't do—"

" **Someone has to**!" Oswald shouted.

In that moment, the pianist/comic had stopped riffing about airline food, and the entire audience within the club silenced. And in that moment, Sylvia appeared as though she might blow a gasket; her eyes brightened and narrowed.

If Oswald had been anyone else, they'd be dead.

"Get out." Sylvia said lowly.

Oswald realized what he'd said the instant he had said it. And he'd never regretted a decision more than he did at this very moment.

"Sylvia..."

"I said. Get. Out." Sylvia ordered dangerously, enunciating every letter as she pointed to the door.

Sensing that there was no way of getting past her cold disposition, Oswald relented and left the club, albeit in a huff. He figured if she was going to respond to him in such a way, he'd do the same.

Sylvia glanced at the comic, who waited for further orders. She nodded and the audience went back to laughing, talking, the like. Meanwhile, she closed herself inside her office, sitting at her desk.

What the hell had just happened?

First, she and Oswald were having an amusing discussion, and then...what, Oswald cared about her safety to the point he was recommending that she not hang around Jim quite as much because he naturally attracted danger.

Oswald hadn't been wrong.

Sylvia _knew_ Jim was dangerous. He, himself, was a softy, but the fact of the matter was that Jim would no doubt be running into monsters—he was a heat seeking missile for chaos. Oswald just worried for her so much that he was strongly recommending (and wasn't that all he was doing, really) to stay away from Jim just while Strange's monsters were out and about.

And how did she react?

Sylvia rubbed her face.

Clearly, she hadn't recuperated in general. She was still tired, still thinking that she had to control every aspect of the empire as though she was still running it solo. Oswald was back in the game now, so she should have lost that suspicious drive.

He was right, in a way.

No one told her where to go or what to do—Sylvia was headstrong, stubborn as a mule, and she was completely independent. She protected Jim and Oswald from anything, anyone, but then who protected _her_ from _herself_?

Sylvia had felt that Oswald was trying to control her in a way that she vowed never to be controlled again. It as was though she'd been forced into the same situation when she was a younger woman, walking on egg shells, pretending to be happy when she wasn't, telling people that the bruises on her arms and legs were from falling down the stairs.

All of those strong emotions had come so quickly that Sylvia couldn't see that Oswald was just trying to protect her from her own idiocy. And how did she respond? She'd ordered him to get out of her own club.

"Good job, Sylvia. Good job," She muttered, rubbing her temples. "Goddamn it."

It was well past ten when Sylvia glanced at the clock above the door. In the past five hours, she had paid off the captains who docked the ports, those of whom regularly transported drugs (cocaine, heroin, that sort of thing). Sylvia had emphasized the importance of keeping it out of the reach of children this time; she didn't think she'd have to reiterate the point, but some of the sailors had selective amnesia, apparently.

After she had finished conducting her business with them, she'd made friends with a few street kids. A bargain was made; as long as their parents didn't know that they were working for her, the children received money for doing what all children should do: play, and stay off drugs.

Some of the children didn't have parents. One of them was Ivy Pepper, whom Sylvia had previously been introduced to back when Barbara was still housing her and Selina Kyle.

It seemed like ages ago. Ivy Pepper had become something of a spy for her. While the little girl wasn't as quick or clever as her feline-like counterpart, that's the main reason why Sylvia liked her. From one redhead to another, they understood each other.

After settling a bargain with Ivy in general (the little girl was scrappier than Sylvia had figured), she then balanced the books while Delilah finished cleaning up the bar. There had been a total of two bar fights, all of which included beer bottles being thrown, chairs being broken, and an assortment of light fixtures were blown out when one riled customer's gun went off.

Dagger and Chilly, her two primary bouncers as well as bruisers, pushed the two uncivilized guests out, but that led to another hour of upkeep.

" _Vee."_

When she peered up from her books, she saw that it was Jim who had spoken. Odd how she hadn't heard him coming a mile away...then again, Dagger and Chilly had been dismissed a few hours ago, along with Delilah.

At this hour, Sylvia was the only one burning the midnight oil. Well, herself and it looked like her brother, who wore the same thing he had since seeing her on stage.

"What are you doing here?" She questioned flatly, as she lowered her eyes back to her books. Scribbling a few words.

"You're still here."

"Yes, I am."

"Why?"

"I'm running a business. While it's normally fun and games, it's actually very time-consuming. Of course, for someone who has never owned a club, I hardly expect you to understand that." Sylvia sneered. "Or anything that has anything to do with my day-to-day life when it doesn't revolve around people like _you_."

Then she paused.

Jim stared at her. He was a bit taken back by her acidic tone. Seeing that Sylvia was just as surprised, Jim walked completely into the room, and closed the door to her office. After, he took a seat in the armchair that was placed opposite of her, folded his arms over the back, sitting in the chair in reverse.

"I figured once Penguin took over, you'd be a lot easier to get along with." He said coolly.

"I'm just tired."

"Is that all?"

"I'm a little irritated." Sylvia admitted, still trying to balance her books. "Two fuckers practically _ruined_ my club, and—as always—I'm picking up after them."

"You run a club. You pick up after everyone. Then again, I've never owned one. So, what would I know about it?" Jim said, reiterating her cold words.

Sylvia's eyes lifted up to meet his.

"There's something else irritating you."

"Have you ever considered it's just _you_?"

"I have, but I doubt I'm the reason you're bitter."

"Perhaps you're just blind."

"Blind, maybe, but I have at least one eye open." Jim said wittingly. "And if you want to know my opinion—"

"—I'm fairly certain I don't—"

"—You're not angry at _me_."

Sylvia gave him her full attention, putting her pen on the surface of the desk and leaning back in her chair with a small revelation.

"Fine." She sniffed. "Maybe I'm _not_ angry at you. So, what do you want?"

"Talk to me, Vee."

"Talk about _what_?"

"You and Penguin had a fight." Jim suspected. "You've got all the signs of a bad argument."

"I don't…."

"Don't insult me. I know better than anyone what the bad end of an argument looks like. Don't act like I don't know you back when we were kids." Jim said, smiling despite his knowledge that Sylvia was hurting. "Come on...Talk to me."

Sylvia crossed her arms grumpily, looking anywhere but at him. What are the odds that the tables would turn on her? Normally, she was the one encouraging Jim to speak, and tell her what had him all upset. He'd normally resist until he could see no other way around it. And here they were…

"Do you remember," She said quietly, "back when you found out that Oswald and I were together?"

Jim nodded.

"You and him were always at odds with each other. Somehow, I always felt like I was in the middle of it."

"Of course, I remember. Why does that matter?"

"I'm having that feeling again."

"Really? Why?" Jim asked, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. Sensing the seriousness of the discussion, he stood, twisted the chair back to its normal position and sat in it like a normal human being. "What happened?"

"He asked me not to be around you anymore." Sylvia admitted, gritting her teeth as she remembered the conversation from earlier this afternoon.

"Oswald, you mean?"

"Yes. He told me that he didn't want me to hang around you."

Coolly, Jim asked, "And why did he tell you that?"

Sylvia was surprised he didn't throw a piece of furniture or lash out in anger. Not being a cop must have simmered him down some.

"He fears for my safety. While you're out, hunting monsters, he doesn't want you anywhere near me."

"I'd have to agree."

" _What_?"

"Vee...I like having you around. Especially since you're someone I can count on, who gets things done. While Strange's monsters are wandering around, it's probably best that you and I don't make as much contact—at least not until all them have been found."

Sylvia stared at him. Completely speechless. She hadn't expected Jim to say that.

"You're taking his side?" She questioned incredulously, pointing to the door which indicated Oswald.

"That's what he wanted, right?" Jim clarified. "To keep you safe? If that's what he wants, then I say, do what he's asked."

"How can you stand there and tell me to stay away from you? You're my fucking brother. My blood—"

"And I'm dangerous."

"You're soft! _You_ aren't dangerous, you just attract danger. We _both_ do." She snapped, standing up. "So you get in trouble _sometimes_. So I _happen_ to get caught up in the trouble when I try to help—it never bothered Oswald before, so why does it bother him now?"

"I think it has always bothered him. But he cares about you. And he doesn't want to get in between us. But he's right."

"So what, you're just going to agree with him, take _his_ side?"

Jim chuckled, appearing surprised by her aggressive response: "Vee, I'm not taking _anyone's_ side."

"It doesn't matter," She snarled, ignoring him. "I'll do _what_ I want, _when_ I want! Neither you nor Oswald are going to stand there and tell me what I should or shouldn't do. If I want to put my life in danger, I'll fucking put my life in danger. Neither of you would be able to stop me!"

"No one's stopping you from doing _anything_!" Jim retorted, standing as well. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"I don't know! I'm pissed off!"

Jim rubbed his face and said, "What are we even arguing about?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" Sylvia shouted, and she threw her pen at him. "You're the one who just _barges_ in whenever he feels like it!"

"I didn't barge in..."

"Did you fucking knock! I don't think so—"

"—Why are you yelling!"

" _You're yelling_!"

"Because you're yelling at _me_!" Jim snarled.

Sylvia and Jim were separated by the desk, but barely. Both of them were baring their teeth, snarling each other like two mutts fighting over scraps. As though they realized what they looked like, and how they were behaving, Jim and Sylvia alike stepped back, and took a breather.

Jim brushed a hand through his hair while Sylvia crossed her arms, feeling more irritated than she'd started out.

"Okay…okay..." Jim mumbled. He looked at her: "Tell me what Oswald said _exactly_."

"He said that while Strange's monsters are lurking around, he didn't want me anywhere near you. We started arguing, and I told him that no one was going to tell me what to do. He said 'someone has to'. I wasn't going to take that kind of talk in my club so I ordered him to leave."

Jim scratched his forehead, saying, "It sounds like you two got into a marital scrap. That's all."

"Oh, really. Is _that_ all?" Sylvia scolded. "Don't think I know that?"

"Well, you _are_ argumentative by nature. Anyone in Gotham can attest to that."

"'Attest'? I'm not on fucking trial, _Jim._ He was going to stand there and tell me who I can or can't talk to? Fuck that. Been there, done that—I swore I would never get myself into that situation again. What would come next then, huh? Isolate me from my family, take hold of all my financial assets? Next, he'll fucking hit me. I wasn't going to be one of those women again—not since the last one. I won't, Jim—I _won't_!"

Jim stared at her.

Sylvia didn't have the best relationships known to man. She'd kissed a great deal of nasty frogs before finding Oswald Cobblepot. Granted, the man wasn't as gold and shiny as Jim would have wanted her first husband to be, but at least he never laid a hand on her.

While it had been a long time since Sylvia had been in such an abusive relationship, the pain of it might have gone, but there were still remnants of it there. Most people wouldn't be able to see it, but for those who had gotten close enough to Sylvia to see her soul, there was a nasty scar from where she'd endured it.

Hearing anything close to being told who she could or couldn't be with...Jim was certain that had been Sylvia's trigger, and it brought back the anger of her former self. Maybe Oswald had known that too, but things said in anger always came out the wrong way. And Sylvia...as argumentative and fiery as she was by nature...was an unstoppable fire. Once the match was struck, everything burned.

"Vee." Jim sighed, walking towards her. "I wasn't there for the argument. So I can't say whether you or Oswald were either right or wrong, but you...I _really_ don't think that's what Oswald meant."

"Again, you're taking his side?"

"I'm not taking anyone's side. I honestly think you overreacted—"

"— ** _Overreacted_** —"

"— _Yes_ , you overreacted, but—"

"—Get the fuck out of my office, James. _I don't **need** this_!"

"Will you just _listen_ for a moment and stop talking!" Jim shouted.

Sylvia stared at him.

Rage filled her entire being; there wasn't a part of her that was calm. Her blood boiled, her mind was fuzzy. Yet, something pulled at her to listen to her brother. Some part of her that wasn't furious beyond any reasonable doubt...it beckoned.

"Oswald is a lot of things," Jim said, eyes widening and eyebrows raising when he thought of all the things that man had been capable of in the past. "But I really, really, _really_ doubt that he's the type to tell you what to do. Even as your boss…He knows you're independent, and you'll do as you please—God knows you're more bullheaded than _me_. And that's saying something, don't you think?"

Sylvia smiled involuntarily.

Jim continued: "No one is telling you what to do, how to act, or who you can or can't be with. The reason I agree with Oswald is that Strange's monsters are _monsters_. One almost killed me the other night, and this one that the little girl told me about—"

"—Delilah—"

"—That's the one. That one almost killed me too. Oswald is looking after you. I have to give him credit; not even _I_ would have told you what to do or that you shouldn't be around me. That took a lot of guts."

"But Jim..."

"You're my little sister. No matter how many pounds you can bench press, or how old you get, you'll always be that. And it's my job to look after you. Oswald and I had an understanding: we would bend over backwards to make sure you're taken care of." Jim reassured. "Now you need to do _your_ part. When one of us asks you to stay away, it's not because we're jealous or trying to control you. It's because you _need_ to stay back."

Sylvia frowned.

While she was still unhappy with whatever the arrangement Oswald and Jim had formed only-god-knows when or where, this seemed to pacify her. And like a fire being extinguished, her temper flared only a few times before being extinguished too.

"Now..." Jim said as he hugged his sister. "There's something else I need to tell you."

Dreading the worst, she muttered, "What…."

"It's almost eleven o'clock."

"What does that matter?"

"If I know Oswald as well as I think I do, he's still up, waiting for you to come home." Jim said with a deeply measured tone. "Something tells me that if you don't get home by midnight, he'll be sending an army."

"You've got a point."

"Wow, I can't believe you agree with me."

"Sometimes, you're right. Other times..."

"Hey, hey!" Jim warned, but allowed himself a smile. "Let me _enjoy_ my moment, okay? Before you stomp all over it."

Sylvia chuckled as Jim wrapped his arm around her shoulder. They started walking out of the office, then the club.

Jim glanced at the cracked chair, saying, "Who are you going to send the bill to?"

"Hmm?"

"To cover the damage."

"I thought about sending it to you, since you're racking up the money for bringing in those monsters. How's the GCPD paying you—does Barnes know?"

"Yeah, Barnes knows."

"By the sound of your voice, I'm guessing he's not happy about it?"

"He wants me to be a cop."

"What's stopping you?"

"I get to sleep in, get up when I want, and drink when I like, and I don't have Barnes breathing over my shoulder." Jim explained.

"If you ever want to completely step over your boundary line, I'll be in need of a bouncer soon," Sylvia said slyly.

"Is that a job offer?"

"Mm-hmm."

"As much as I like hanging out with you, Vee, I don't think it would work out, me working for you."

"I pay well."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"You still want to be a cop, don't you?"

"Eventually. I won't ruin my chances by working at your club. I'm sure you'd be a great boss though."

"Watch that mouth of yours, Jim. I'm a _fantastic_ boss." Sylvia said, smirking at him. "You could throw a rock at anyone in Gotham and still not get a better boss than me."

"Considering most of them work for you—I'm thinking that's about right."

"Wow. You're right twice in a row."

"I know," Jim chuckled. "I'm on fire."

They walked to her car.

"I don't know how I'm going to make it up to him," Sylvia muttered as she opened her car door. "I think I wounded him."

Jim stood on the opposite side of the door with his arms folded parallel with the frame.

"Make-up sex?" He suggested.

Sylvia stared at him, and said suspiciously, "Are you _really_ Jim Gordon?"

"In the flesh, Vee. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"My brother frantically avoids referring to anything sexual around me. Suggesting I win my husband's affection with make-up sex is the opposite of what he'd suggest."

Jim said honestly, "Look, I still don't like the idea of you and Penguin being together, but if it's going to be a constant pain in my backside, I'd rather it be a well-oiled machine. Plus, when it comes down to it, Penguin's the only reason you don't go bat-shit crazy and destroy the entire city. If the two of you break up, I honestly don't know how I'll keep you from destroying Gotham."

"You're saying Oswald controls me?"

"Before your temper flares up again, _no_. That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what _are_ you saying?"

"In a world where you're a brush fire and everyone else is either dried grass or gasoline, he's the only one standing in a lake, holding up a bottle of Aloe." Jim said bluntly.

"That's the sincerest thing you've ever said about us. That was really goddamn poetic," Sylvia said, putting a hand over her heart. "Did Strange's truth serum stay in your system or something?"

"Nah. I just get tired of lying to you."

"Another confession by the infamous James Gordon. How lucky am I."

"That's all you're getting. Good night, Vee."

"Are you heading home?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Be careful."

"You too."

They hugged once more and Sylvia watched him jog to the bridge. Sylvia got in her car and headed home. She'd find a way to make it up to Oswald. After all, he was just looking after her.

**Chapter 6: Strongest Of All, Weakened By One**

As one could have expected, the door to the Van Dahl mansion was unlocked. Oswald still had expected her to come home; a lot sooner, perhaps...but there it was. If he hadn't been contrite, he would have left the door locked. Alas, here it was, not so. Anyone and their brother could have come into the mansion and rob him blind (not that many would have even dared do something so foolish). Quietly, Sylvia entered and closed the door with the softest 'click'. She put her coat on the stand behind it, and then walked completely inside.

A small sound of someone stoking the fire alerted her to a presence in the living room. She leaned against the wall in relief when she noticed that it was Mr. Bell, who was squatted in front of the mantle, trying to revive the dying fire. He wore a maroon-colored bathrobe, fire-engine red wool cap, and matching pajamas.

"Mr. Bell. You're out of bed."

Her voice vaguely startled the manservant, but Mr. Bell was smiling when he peered over his shoulder at her.

"Oh, dear. It appears that I've been discovered," He joked, straightening to his full height. However, when he did, a grimace of pain hedged his expression of amusement in the slightest way.

Sylvia pretended not to notice. A comment on Mr. Bell's age wouldn't have boosted his ego; he was nearing the age of fifty; his physical prowess had prolonged the inevitable deterioration of age, and so far the only issue seemed to be his immune system, which evidently had lacked the proper discipline to keep him from getting sick. But even for a man nearing fifty, he looked like he was in a greater deal of pain than he let on.

"Are you feeling better?" Sylvia asked as she pulled off her gloves one finger at time, and placed them on the end table nearest to the couch. "You seem like it, at least."

"I was down for the count, but I'm back to my usual self. If I may ask, why are you home so late?"

Almost coyly, she responded, "Were you expecting me?"

"Personally, I thought you were already in bed. So, one can only see why I was so startled when I heard you coming through the front door," Mr. Bell explained, smiling a little. He noticed that she was still wearing what she'd worn on the way out earlier this morning, and his brow furrowed. "Why _are_ you home so late?"

"I had business to take care of at the club."

He looked at the clock sitting on the mantle of the fire place: it was a few minutes past midnight.

"Is Oz still up?"

"He went to bed, as far as I know it."

"I'm going to check on him."

"Did you two have an argument?"

Sylvia halted in mid-step, turning on her heel to look at him: "Why do you ask that?"

Mr. Bell smiled knowingly, saying, "I've seen the extent of Mr. Cobblepot's temper, I dare say. But there's always an intricate difference in his tantrums. How he behaves post-temper severely depends on whether he was made furious by his cronies or by your doing, my lady. That said, he was particularly grumpier than usual this afternoon."

"How would you know that, seeing as you were supposed to be in bed? The doctor said 'one week'. Not 'six days'."

"I feel a lot better, milady," Mr. Bell reassured. He glanced below the mantle, adding, "I can't say the same for this lamentable excuse for a fire."

"There's more wood in the back...And I don't care if you feel better, Mr. Bell. The doctor _said_ …."

"I am ten times better. I know my health more than that old flatulent hack," Mr. Bell argued, albeit in a good humor. "I could do five cartwheels and a front flip over the Golden Gate Bridge to prove that I have never felt better. Should I prove myself to you now or later in the morning?"

Sylvia resigned, "Don't bother. I believe you."

"Now that my health has been thoroughly discussed, I'd like to know if I am correct in my presumption. You and Mr. Cobblepot _did_ have a little disagreement?"

Sylvia gave him a look and that made Mr. Bell grin knowingly. He didn't even need a verbal confirmation when it came to her; she could convey a thousand conversations with her facial expressions alone.

"Well, I'm sure whatever the disagreement, you and Mr. Cobblepot will work it out." He said confidently. "Now, do excuse me, milady. I'm going to fetch more firewood. It's colder than Antarctica in this place."

He bowed to the waist. Straightening, he tried hiding a grimace of pain, which Sylvia decided to ignore. He then left shortly to the back of the mansion.

Sylvia watched him, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. She'd surely see Mr. Bell live to the age of 100, rolling around in a wheel chair and being partly supported by a ventilator, and he'd still vow that he could do a front flip over that damn bridge. But that's one of the reasons she liked him; he was feisty, turning fifty years old in another few months. Fifty years old going on sixty, if he wasn't careful enough.

The bedroom door was cracked open. Just enough for her to peek through into the dark space. As she opened the door gingerly, Sylvia noticed that Oswald was lying on _his_ side of the bed, not sprawled out or anything. Then again, he never really took up much of the bed space, anyway. There was a bottle of Jim Beam Bourbon Whiskey, sitting on the end table; a small glass beside it; what was left of the ice had melted to the bottom, diluting the usual rich, caramel-colored alcohol to a pale brown.

A pang of guilt made Sylvia wince. Had their argument caused so much turmoil that Oswald had to switch to something stronger in order to dull the stronger emotions? Forget the fact that he'd sought out the cheaper stuff in the cabinets.

For all his strengths of charisma, influence, ambitions, and otherwise skill of manipulation, Sylvia would frequently forget that Oswald was an emotional man. It was not a secret that they both had tempers the size of Texas. While Sylvia was given more to impulse, Oswald was far more controlled by his emotions—particularly those that centered around his feelings towards her.

Mr. Bell had noted that Oswald's temper varied by a slight degree. Whether he was furious at his flunkies for messing up on a contract, or what-have-you, he could kill a man and then be peachy as pie a moment after. However, to Mr. Bell's credit, he had been right. When Oswald and Sylvia argued and if the conflict wasn't resolved at that particular moment, Oswald's temper could fester into an emotional roller coaster. Who knows how many people he snapped at, or calls he had rejected while their conversation bubbled up and repeated like a washing cycle over and over in his head.

The night had progressed normally for Sylvia as she had balanced her finances. Meanwhile, Oswald was going over the conversation several hundred times, no doubt wondering if he could take back what he'd said. It had compelled him to open the bottle of bourbon, a way to get to sleep so his mind and heart would cease fire.

Sylvia walked to his side of the bed, capped the bottle, and took the glass in the other hand. She momentarily left the room to put both in the kitchen before returning to the bedroom, closing the door silently. Just as cat-like quiet as she had been when she walked, she undressed, and then pulled a night slip over her head. During this time, she contemplated Jim's suggestion.

_Make-up sex._

It was a good idea...but the question was: Once Oswald woke up, would he even be in the mood to 'do the do' as it were?

Come to think of it, Sylvia had never woken him up with sex before. A kiss, yes, but sex? That hadn't even entered her mind, surprisingly enough. And what if—by chance—when he did wake up, if he rejected her. If he'd fallen asleep angry, wouldn't logic dictate that he'd still be cross when he opened his eyes?

Well, that was a chance she had to take, huh?

Sylvia slid under the covers, smiling when she saw that he was wearing his all-black pajama shirt and pants. He slept on his back, hands on his chest.

"Sweet baby." She uttered lovingly.

She moved closer to him. Lying on her side, Sylvia tested his degree of consciousness, lightly tugging the hem of his shirt and slowly sliding her hand underneath. Her fingers grazed the bare skin of his stomach, then up to his chest. A small amount of excitement tickled her when she felt lean muscle definition beneath her fingertips.

Quelling the need to satisfy her sexual inhibitions too early on, Sylvia leaned into him, and ever so gently nuzzled Oswald's neck, kissing the skin just below his ear lobe and above his neckline. His sweet spot.

Oswald moved in his sleep. His furrowed brow relaxed, and his hands moved to his sides. Sylvia smiled in satisfaction. He wasn't in such a deep sleep that he couldn't respond to her, but odds are, whatever she was doing was somehow finding its way into his dreams.

"This will be a dream you won't forget." Sylvia whispered, grinning from ear-to-ear.

She hooked one leg around his, anchoring him to the bed on his back. No need for him to turn on his side, after all. Sylvia had him just where she needed him. She laid her head along the crook of his neck, sliding one arm under his pillow; the other remained under his shirt. Her fingers drew invisible designs over his chest and stomach, just lightly enough to be present.

"I know you were just looking after me," Sylvia mumbled remorsefully. "I know that, now. Even after all these years...I guess I'm still not used to that. You can understand better than anyone, can't you?"

Oswald let out a soft 'mmm'. Whether that was an acknowledgement to her words or otherwise, Sylvia's grin widened when he did.

"We have one argument, and you're halfway through a bottle of bourbon." Sylvia mused. Her hand drifted downwards to the waistband of his pajamas. "I'm not certain if I should feel guilty about that…or a little flattered…" (She fiddled with it.) "…that you care so much."

She kissed his ear.

"I love you, Ozzie."

In saying so, she dipped her hand beneath the waistband of his pajama pants, and smiled when there was no barrier between them and his cock. He went without boxers….

"Well, well, well…." Sylvia drawled lowly in his ear. "Someone was expecting something tonight, wasn't he?"

Maybe the idea of make-up sex wasn't just a suggestion on her brother's part. Oswald was probably thinking along the same lines. It wasn't often that he would skip on looking his best…even when he was sleeping. He was always so prim and proper. But not tonight, it seemed.

And when she never came home (at least not while he was awake), Oswald decided that a shot of bourbon would get him to sleep just as quickly, although not as contently. Sylvia wasn't one-hundred percent sure that this had been his thought process, but considering how well she knew him…She'd bet her employees' lives on that wager.

Sylvia flattened her hand, and grazed her palm over the flaccid member, stroking him. As she did, she watched his face for any type of hint that he was waking up: his lips parted ever so lightly, and Sylvia smirked. Whether he knew it or not, his body was reacting to her touch.

She sat up, careful not to cause any abrupt disturbance. Just as slowly, she pushed his legs apart and sat between them, then she leaned over his body, and kissed his neck. He stirred again.

"I'm going to be really interested in seeing what you do when you wake up and see me sucking your cock," Sylvia sighed, and she kissed him gently on the lips before crawling back to her spot between his legs.

Lying on her stomach, Sylvia tugged at the waistband of his pajama bottoms down to the low V of his hips, shimmying them below his thighs. With his cock in her hand, she licked the tip, underneath it, and then as she swirled her tongue, slowly took him inside her mouth.

"Mmmm…"

It was the softest of sounds, but she heard his moan, and it set her insides ablaze. Sylvia lifted her eyes, smirking when his back slightly arched, and the way his face expressed confusion and bliss.

His mind was trying to make sense of it within a dream, while his body was happy to engage.

Sylvia hummed lowly, setting vibrations over the head and shaft of his cock. When his hips started to thrust, she locked her arms around his waist, keeping him still. She would go at her own pace. Not his.

The bed creaked as she re-positioned, getting to her knees while her tongue massaged him. When his cock was lathered with her saliva, she stroked him with her hand as she crawled to his side.

Once there, her lips briefly touched his. To her surprise and content, Oswald slowly returned it.

Sylvia watched his eyes open, and he looked at her, briefly confused, before putting his warm feelings and her presence together, solving the mystery.

"Good morning, sweetheart." Sylvia teased, grinning from ear-to-ear. She squeezed his cock in acknowledgement.

His hands lifted, tangling into her hair and he guided her head up to meet his, shoving his mouth against hers so hard, their teeth clicked. He kissed her with both passion and desperation. In between kisses, he begged, "Please, don't stop."

She stroked him harder, faster…his kisses became sloppy, like he couldn't keep up with her while she played with him. He was rock hard in her grip, and Sylvia sensed his alcohol-filled urgency.

While one hand satisfied his deeper urge, she used the other to pull down her underwear, slyly climbing out of them and then onto him. While Sylvia straddled his lap, Oswald looked up at her as though she was a goddess in human form, knowing what relief she was about to grant him, but also knowing how quickly this beautiful thing of a gift could be taken away.

His cock stood at attention without her help, and she took it between her legs, rubbing the head between the lips of her pussy, teasing her clit. Oswald reached up to touch her braless breasts, covered by the night slip. He licked his lips, his breathing quick and shallow.

"You want this?" Sylvia asked sweetly, slowly teasing his cock with her wetness.

"Please…."

"Please _what_?"

Oswald sat up, and she allowed him to kiss her passionately. His soft moans vibrating inside her mouth, proving to her how eager he was. His hands groped her breasts, then her ass, doing what was necessary to persuade her.

"You want to be inside me, don't you, Oswald?" Sylvia asked, her soft lips against his.

She lifted her hips, rubbing his cock against her tight entrance, teasing. She felt his cockhead slip through, and suddenly every part of her was just as desperate for him to be inside. She didn't wait for an answer. She mounted him, sinking herself onto him, balls deep. They both let out a deep sigh of content before Sylvia started grinding on him, swirling her hips so she could feel every inch of his swollen dick inside of her.

When she wasn't going fast enough, drunk or not, Oswald let out a sharp sigh of frustration, and bucked his hips so hard that Sylvia lost her balance and fell on her back. She smirked when Oswald was instantly on top of her, separating her legs so he could move in between them.

"Oz, what—"

"Don't try to stop me."

Sylvia was undoubtedly stronger than him. If she wanted, she could throw him across the room. In spite of her physical prowess, Sylvia couldn't push him away. He was the only person that could ever make her feel so weak and so powerless—but it was a feeling she craved.

Seeing this was so, Oswald's dominating side came forth. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them to the mattress on either side of her head and as he kissed her, his cock thrust back inside.

" _Fuck_ …."

The swear didn't come from her. It came from _him_. Hearing him swear made Sylvia's heart pick up a few beats, and her cunt tightened around him. She was so ready…she could come at any moment.

"Baby, I'm…fuck, I'm so close..." Sylvia whimpered.

Hearing her desperate plea, Oswald moved faster, harder. Her cunt tightened around him, her walls contracting, and she damn near screamed. He covered her mouth with his hand; when her wetness clenched around him for a tenth time, his own climax erupted. He bit down on her shoulder, and Sylvia keened.

Slowly, the erotic bliss ebbed away, leaving the two lovers in content. Slowly, Oswald pulled out of her, a smug little smile tugging at the corner of his lips when she let out a soft, reluctant moan. He lied beside her, breathless, but satisfied. In all honesty, he was still slightly drunk, but his approaching sobriety wouldn't leave him any less content than he was now.

Sylvia sat up, feeling her thighs shake even as she was still recovering. After enough time had lapsed where both could catch their breath, the silence was broken.

"I'm sorry for what I said." Oswald said quietly, looking at her from his back.

She looked at him, meeting his eyes.

"And I'm sorry I told you to get out of the club."

Oswald brushed a hand through his hair and sat up, leaning his back against the headboard. His pajamas were ruffled from their love-making, and Sylvia's night slip was wrinkled. Seeing one another as such, they cracked a smile.

"You know, all I want is for you to be safe." Oswald said softly. Doubt suddenly plagued him and he looked at her uncertainly. "You know that…Don't you?"

"Of course, I do. That's not what made me angry."

"You have to admit, you _do_ put your life in danger any time you're with your brother."

"You've never said anything before."

"If I had, would it have changed anything?"

"Probably not…."

Oswald moved closer to her and Sylvia smiled when he held her hand.

"But, you know…I don't have to tell you the type of men I've been with before you. You've seen what they were like. They were controlling, possessive—You can't just tell me stuff like that. I know what you said came from a good place…Now that I'm _calm_ , I understand."

"But you like being told what to do…."

"I like being your _employee_. But there's a fine line there. You are more than welcome to tell me who I have to kill, rob, or what-have-you. You and I see eye-to-eye on most things anyway, so there's nothing you can tell me that I will disagree with…ever. But I'm not just your employee, either. I'm your wife—and we can argue about which wine is better with steak, and whose turn it is to tell Mr. Bell that he has to clean the kitchen again….by the way, it's your turn…."

Oswald let out a breathy laugh, happy that the tension was broken. Sylvia smiled at his response.

She added: "Jim means a lot to me. No one will keep me away from him if I have any say in it. But I appreciate you looking after me."

Oswald nodded, taking in this information as he considered her words.

"I assume I have some say in this?" He asked, almost comically.

She gestured to him to continue.

"Regardless of how others may revere you…You are single-handedly the most important person to me, Pigeon. That said, everything you do…anything you say….it resonates deeply with me."

"Is that why you went through half a bottle of bourbon?"

"Partly."

"'Partly'?" Sylvia repeated.

"Well…"

She smiled.

"Ozzie."

"Hmm?"

She sat on her knees, and took his hands in hers.

"I'm sorry that I upset you," She said gently. "I know you care for my safety. And I know—since the event with Maroni's men in the past—you've become overprotective, and that's what I love most about you."

"Why do I sense a 'but' coming on?"

"Because there _is_ a 'but'. My brother is a magnet for chaos. He always has been, always will be. There will never come a time that when he asks for my help that I'll turn him away. It puts my life in danger, sure, but that's kind of my baseline at this point." Sylvia said, shrugging a shoulder. "And I'd readily do the same thing for you. Just know that I will _always_ come back."

"And what happens when the day comes that you don't?"

"This is Gotham. People don't stay dead. I'll always come back to you, Oz. I'll always be here when you need me, and you can always count on me when you do. But for what it's worth…while Hugo Strange's monsters are out and about, I _will_ do my best to keep some distance between Jim and me so that it will give you some peace of mind."

Oswald's eyebrows raised in surprise. Sylvia noticed, and she laughed quietly.

"Why the sudden change of mind?" He asked as she lied on her back.

"I don't say it often, but…I was wrong. And you were right."

"About?"

"Sometimes, someone needs to tell me what to do." Sylvia confessed. "I do my best to protect you and Jim—I've trained with Mr. Bell for months. But for all my physical acquisitions I've gained from him, and all the shooting ranges and contracts I've gone to with Victor Zsasz, there's still one person that could disarm me.."

"Who are they?" Oswald asked suspiciously.

"More like 'she'."

"Pardon?"

"Me. I can protect you and Jim from everyone and their brother. But for whatever fucking reason, I can't protect me from myself. It's an existential dilemma, really." She mused, looking up at Oswald as she smiled. "Someone has to tell me when to back off. Whether it be you, or Jim."

"I suppose you're right."

"There's something else."

"'Else'?"

"Mm-hmm."

"What else?"

"Jim said something to me," Sylvia relinquished interestedly.

"When?"

"Earlier."

"Today?"

"Well, technically speaking, it would be 'last night', since it's morning."

"The time of day is irrelevant, Pet."

Sylvia crossed her arms: "Jim and I spoke last night. At my club."

"And what did he have to say?"

"Nothing much. But he mentioned something that I think you'd find most fascinating."

"Which is?"

Sylvia sat up and said with a languid smile, "He says that you're the only person that could stop me from destroying Gotham."

"Did he, now."

"Mm-hmm."

"How do you feel about that?"

"I think he's right." Sylvia uttered, kissing Oswald's cheek. "If I was holding a detonator that was connected to a bomb that could destroy Gotham, no one could stop me from pressing the button. At least, no one but you. You would be the only person who could get through to me."

"Why is that, I wonder."

"It's simple, really." Sylvia uttered softly. "Everything you do...anything you say….it resonates with me."

"Using my words."

"Because it's true. How do _you_ feel about that?"

"I feel honored." Oswald responded. He caressed her cheek in the palm of his hand, pressing his lips against hers so softly, she'd wondered if he really kissed her at all. "Actually, if I'm being honest, it's a little empowering."

"How so?"

"The strongest, fiercest woman in the world is weakened by me. If that's not an ego boost…"

"Shut up," Sylvia laughed, pushing him a little.

Oswald smiled at her happily.

**Chapter 7: A Visit With Victor**

In the three months that passed, Sylvia kept her word.

Neither she nor Jim met up that much in person, although they did keep in touch via telephone. Some of Strange's monsters had been caught, and while the psychiatrist was kept in an unfounded location, there were still plenty of his strays running a muck.

Despite that, _Lean on Vee's_ was prospering under Delilah's watchful gaze, giving Sylvia more time to handle other lucrative business.

On the outskirts of Gotham, she met up with Victor Zsasz, who offered to go halfsies on the contracts he performed outside of Penguin's scope. For the moment, it was just a small vacation from Gotham's chaotic world, and gave her time to discuss the comings and goings of day-to-day stuff. A business commute, perhaps, but on the whole: Sylvia just missed her work-husband.

As mentioned before, while Victor was employed by Penguin, he still did contracts on the side, namely for retired Mobster, Don Falcone. Sylvia wasn't quite so surprised to find that out; after all, Victor held a certain admiration and respect for him; it was something Victor had that Sylvia neither condemned nor condoned.

"What does he have you do anymore?" Sylvia asked as she walked side-by-side with the professional hitman.

They strolled some blocks away from a beach house, a location where Falcone was currently living. It was some ways away from the retired Don; Sylvia didn't want to operate under his eye; it would be awkward doing so after all these years.

"Nothing much," Victor answered taciturnly, after which, he took a sip from his cherry slushy. Sylvia held her pineapple Italian ice in one hand; the other held Victor's arm as they strolled down the boardwalk connected to the beach.

Victor donned his leather black formal wear; Sylvia was dressed the same, wearing black slacks, a navy blue low-V-neck blouse, and her laced ebony boots, and wearing fingerless fishnet gloves that cut off at her elbows. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail, the lock of midnight blue framing her face.

"I hope he still pays you well?"

"Liv, he doesn't have to pay me at all. I do the contracts for little to nothing."

"What contracts could you possibly be getting from someone who's no longer in the game anymore?"

"Doesn't really concern you."

Sylvia said pointedly, "So you respect him that much to do what he likes—whatever that is—for free?"

"Not 'free'," Victor chuckled. With a quirk of a hairless eyebrow, he added, "I said 'little to nothing'. I respect him. That's all."

"Respect doesn't pay the rent."

"Oh-ho!"

Sylvia looked at him: "What?"

"Don't 'what' me. You _know_ what."

"I don't know 'what'. What the hell is 'oh-ho' about?"

Victor stopped walking so Sylvia matched him, turning around to see that smug expression on his usual expressionless face.

"You sound jealous." Victor said, smirking at her.

"Of _Falcone_? Please."

"I'm no longer at your beck and call, kiddo. I have other contracts, you know."

"I never asked you to be at my beck and call. You _chose_ to be." Sylvia remarked smartly. She poked him hard in the chest, adding, "If you wanted to be entertained, Victor, you could have come to me. I have plenty other contracts you can complete without having to visit Falcone, you know. _And_ you can still be gainfully employed."

He grabbed her hand that was poking him in the chest.

"All kidding aside, you've missed me, haven't you?"

"What of you is there to miss?" She questioned, pulling her hand out of his grasp. "You're a hitman. Nothing more."

"Oh, that hurts" He returned sarcastically. "I thought we had more than that. What about our work-wedding vows?"

"For richer or poorer…For mass slaughter or picking off people one by one…"

"All of that. Whichever makes this whole thing between you and me dirtier."

"Ha-ha." Sylvia smirked at him. "When you were still working for Penguin—"

"What do you mean 'were'? I still am."

"Well, it's just that I don't see you around nearly as much."

"Because I'm _working_ ," He reminded, gesturing to the boardwalk. "It takes a lot of time out of my schedule, Liv."

"Yeah, walking the beach. How _stressful_. How _time consuming_. Give me a break."

Sylvia continued walking; he followed her, like a shark slowly swaying behind an angelfish.

"While you spend your time here, Gotham is riddled with monsters." She said with a grudgeful tone as she peered out at the ocean.

"Gotham has always been 'riddled' with monsters. It's _Gotham_."

"They're Strange's monsters."

With an air of aloof, Victor said, "How dangerous can they be."

"Two of them nearly killed my brother."

"He's still alive, isn't he?"

"From what I can tell."

Victor sensed the off-putting sound of her tone, and he took her arm, catching up to her. He drank the last of his slushy, threw it in the garbage tin beside them, and said with a slight tone of concern, "What do you mean by that?"

Sylvia's lips curled into a smile.

"Do you really care?"

"I care enough to ask," Victor said with a half-shrug.

"Jim is fine."

"Mm-hmm. 'From what you can tell'."

"I've not seen him in a few weeks."

"Why is that?"

Sylvia sighed, "Jim and I agreed that he shouldn't hang around me until the monsters are caught."

"Why is _that_?"

"The monsters are dangerous. Jim's a bounty hunter these days, you know. He doesn't want me to get hurt; Oswald doesn't want me hanging around Jim, since he attracts trouble."

Victor said mischievously, "And how has that been treating him?"

"As well as being a cop did."

"So little to no damage, huh?"

"Very little."

"It'll be good for him. He's a pretty good cop when he wants to be. People get burned out; maybe this will be like a vacation."

"You're underestimating how dangerous these monsters are."

"Yes. _So_ dangerous that they seem to be keeping _you_ at bay."

Sylvia frowned. But Victor appeared impish; he knew what that kind of challenge would do to her, but she didn't take his bait, although it appeared as though she was more than willing to do it.

"You know how much I want to go after them."

Victor leaned against the railing of the boardwalk. One boot on the bottom rail, while his arms were crossed. The weapons holstered in his vest seemed to gleam in the sunshine, along with his bald head.

He asked, "Why don't you?"

"Why don't I _what_?"

"Go after the monsters."

"I promised Oswald that I would back off."

"That's one hell of a promise. Coming from you. I guess if I wanted to get a few bucks from the GCPD, I could roll over a few monsters myself."

"Now you're just rubbing it in," Sylvia muttered, rolling her eyes dramatically to the sky.

She continued to walk while Victor strolled right behind her. She took a drink from her Italian ice.

"Neither bullets nor fire will keep you from war, but a promise will." Victor chuckled from behind. "That's something I didn't know about you."

"There's plenty more, I assure you."

"If you weren't married, I'd say that was innuendo."

Sylvia peered over her shoulder, saying slyly, "Are you making a pass at me?"

Victor shrugged carelessly and walked right by her. She kept up with him in stride. He hopped down the ten steps with a pep and then turned, holding out his hand. Humbly, she took it and he 'helped' her down the stairs. Now their feet stood on sand.

"Let's say I chose to be solely employed by you and Penguin. What kind of contracts are we talking about?" Victor asked, wrapping an arm around Sylvia's shoulders as she threw her slushy into the nearest garbage can.

"Simple ones."

"Good ones?"

"As good as you can get."

"I'd want first dibs."

"That's what Falcone did for you," Sylvia recalled. "You're asking for the same respect?"

"If they're good contracts."

"A contract is a contract."

"I want good ones."

"They _will_ be good ones."

"Such as?"

"I can't think of any right now." She admitted. "People have been too scared to rebel."

"The monsters, huh?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Once Jimbo catches all of those monsters, I wonder what else you'll use to keep your people idle." Victor mused aloud, smirking at her when Sylvia flashed him a look that read 'don't challenge me'. "I'm kidding."

A few children played in the water; many adults lounged on the beach, sun tanning, making castles. Victor and Sylvia acknowledged their presence while the other adults watched them with uneasy glances. After all, she and Victor had reputations known even on the outside of Gotham.

"How's your manservant?"

"Mr. Bell, you mean?" Sylvia asked.

"Whatever."

"He's doing better."

"Last I heard, he had the flu."

"I'm pretty sure it would have been pneumonia if he'd not gone to the doctor earlier." Sylvia commented. "He's better now…"

"But?"

Sylvia said quietly, "He was rekindling the fire and when he stood, he looked like he was in pain."

"Well, the guy's, what, sixty years old? Probably Don Falcone's age."

"He's fifty."

Victor acknowledged this with a nod.

"So you think there's more to the butler than what he's telling you?" He suspected.

"I think so. I think there's something wrong with his back."

"Just his back?"

"I don't know. We were brawling—you know, training—and he tried to grapple me from behind. I flipped him over my head and he broke the coffee table." Sylvia said, wincing at the memory. "I couldn't tell if the noise came from his back or the _table_. Scared me a little, to be honest."

"Is he in the hospital?"

"No. He said he didn't need to go."

"Stubborn fool."

"No stubborn than a mule."

"Less stubborn than _you_."

"I think there's more people more stubborn than me."

"Liv, there is no one more stubborn than you."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Victor." Sylvia reprimanded, smiling though.

A woman passed them. Long, brunette hair, full lips, dark amber brown eyes. She smiled dutifully at Victor and he made a slight bow to her. Sylvia didn't give any indication that she'd seen her. After the woman had gone, She sent him a cool glance.

"What?" He said defensively.

"Who was she?"

"No one you need to know," Victor returned protectively.

Sylvia's eyebrows quirked upward. She took Victor's arm and put it next to his own body, away from her own shoulders.

"Who _was_ she, Victor?"

Seeing that she wasn't going to let it go, he answered coolly: "Sofia Falcone."

"I didn't know Falcone had a daughter."

"He has a son too."

"Are you protective of him as well?"

"Between you and me, I can't stand the son-of-a-bitch." Victor admitted callously.

"So much animosity towards the son of a man you admire so much."

"Don Falcone is a man I respect. Mario Falcone is a putz. I never liked him."

"Glad to hear it."

She and Victor continued to walk down the beach.

"How's Delilah?" Victor asked, side-glancing her. "I hear she's been taking control of your club."

"She's becoming something of a protege."

"Does she dance too?"

"Not so well. She has two left feet."

"I guess your dance numbers will happen less and less these days."

"Half my dance team were slaughtered by the GCPD when Oswald and company went after Galavan," Sylvia reminded unhappily. "I've not had the heart to put the team back together after that."

"That's a shame." Victor lamented sincerely. "I enjoyed watching your practice rehearsals."

"I'm so sure you did." Sylvia responded, smirking at him. Seriously, she added, "I have to find more people if I want to start my choreography again. I've thought about extending my services elsewhere."

Victor looked at her inquisitively.

"Schools." Sylvia answered his silent question.

"Children?"

"You sound so surprised."

"You want to teach children how to dance?"

"Why not?" She questioned defensively. "The amount of energy these children have and they have nowhere to put it. I could guarantee that if my father let me dance in school, I wouldn't have had nearly many detention hours."

"I thought you _were_ on the dance team."

"I _wanted_ to be. I even tried out behind his back."

"I'm guessing you didn't qualify?"

"I more than qualified, _believe me_ ," Sylvia responded coldly. "It was the dance teacher...Mrs. Bunapart. I was a juvenile delinquent. When my brother and me were younger, Jimmy pushed Barney Truffles off a slide, and I took the blame. I spent detention after school every day of that week. And Jim and I skipped math class in the sixth grade, and guess who found us ditching?"

"Mrs. Bunapart."

"Yep. I was grounded for two weeks after that." She said resentfully. "So, naturally, when I tried out for the dance team, I blew my tryouts out of the water. Kids were cheering…but because Mrs. Bunapart knew I was a trouble maker, she wouldn't allow me to join the team. She said it would 'ruin the morale' or whatever. Fucking cunt."

"So, it sounds like you're still angry about that?"

"It's a fact, yes. I'm thirty-two years old, and I'm _still_ pissed off about what happened in high school. Who _isn't_? Who knows how many kids who were in my position were unable to do anything because of people like her."

"I'm sure that's changed."

"You bet? She's _still there_."

Victor's eyebrows went all the way up: "Are you kidding me?"

"No. That old bag is still there." She said calmly, "I'd like to help the kids out...those other juvenile delinquents. Honestly, I'd say I turned a pretty penny when I turned to a life of crime, but not everyone gets that lucky."

"I'd say it's because you're smart."

"I could take credit, but honestly, I give most of it to Oswald. He knew what he was doing at least. I didn't know _what_ the fuck **I** was doing. Riding the rails, I guess. Who knows, you know. I was just trying to come up with a plan."

"A dance team…I don't think kids share your passion, Liv."

"You'd be surprised." Sylvia simpered. "People don't give kids nearly enough credit. Look at what Selina Kyle can do, for instance."

"Who?"

"'Cat'."

"Oh."

"Not to mention Ivy Pepper."

"Mario Pepper's kid?"

"Yeah. She's on the streets now."

"You know, I'll give you this much credit." Victor sighed. "You may be Fish Mooney's counterpart, but there's something you have that she never did."

"What exactly is that?"

"A soft spot for children. Fish framed Pepper, and she never considered the consequences of her actions where the kid was concerned."

"Oh my goodness, Victor. I never knew you had such sentimentality." Sylvia teased, smirking at him.

"Fuck off, Liv."

"Fuck yourself, baby."

"Even if you somehow got through the school—"

"What do you mean 'somehow'?"

"You can strong-hand your way into a school all you like, but you're not going to become part of the staff." Victor explained amusedly. "People know you; teachers know who you are. I doubt any self-respecting principal would allow someone like you to walk right in and apply for a staff position."

"I'll be assembling a dance team for kids." She said stubbornly. "The principal, and cunts like Mrs. Bunapart be damned."

"I have no doubt you'll succeed."

Sylvia and Victor continued on their walk.

"I hear Fish is still on the loose," He said conversationally.

"You heard right."

"Any sightings?"

"None what so ever."

"Doesn't that irk you?"

"It's bothersome, but it doesn't keep me up at night."

"What about Penguin?"

"Now _he's_ bothered by it." Sylvia agreed. "After all, he's the one that killed her the first time. Who knows what she's planning now?"

"I'm surprised Jim hasn't found her."

"Jim works for money. Once there's a price on her head, he'll be more inclined to help."

"He doesn't think Fish might go after _you_?"

"Why would she go after me?"

"Why _wouldn't_ she?"

Sylvia looked at him pointedly: "Oswald killed her. Not me. The worst I've done to her is bite her leg."

"You killed her mother."

" _Did I_?" She said incredulously. "When did I do **that**?"

"You shot an old woman on a stage."

" _That_ was her mother?"

"Yes!"

"I didn't know that!"

"How could you not know! Isn't that why you shot her?"

"I honestly didn't know that old woman was Fish's mother! And no! I didn't shoot her for that reason, obviously."

"Then why did you shoot her?"

"Fish stabbed my husband in the hand with a fucking broach pen," Sylvia responded defensively. "If she hadn't hurt Oswald, I wouldn't have done anything. I would have hurt _Fish_ but I promised Oswald I wouldn't hurt her. And I couldn't let it go, now, could I?"

"Fish Mooney's mother was on that stage." Victor stated, glancing at her, since he was perplexed and amused that Sylvia hadn't any idea. "You shot her in the leg; the woman bled out before the cops or medics could get there in time."

"Well, this certainly has given me more perspective." She mumbled remorsefully.

"You never fail to amuse me, Liv."

"Well, I'm glad you find this funny!"

"It's not funny but in some ways, it is."

"I can tell—you're still laughing! Why are you laughing!"

"Because it's funny!"

"I really had _no idea_ that she was Fish's mother."

"Would that have changed the outcome?"

"Probably!" Sylvia responded strongly. "Oh my god, I can't even _believe—_ god, no wonder why she reacted the way she did! Fuck!"

"So, now you think she's after you."

"Well, _yes_ , **now** I do! What the hell—I thought I was just shooting an innocent bystander. I didn't think I was shooting Fish's _mother_! Oh my god!"

"I didn't think you'd have this big of a reaction, to be honest."

"Of course, I'm reacting! Do you have any idea how bad I feel?" She retorted, pushing him. "That poor woman! Fuck, had I known…I'm the worst person in the world! Fish is going to come after _me_ , oh my god, what the hell have I done! This is terrible, Victor! This is fucking horrible! I have to know what she's thinking—what she's planning, she's going to come after me in the middle of the fucking night, and I won't see her coming! No, I won't!"

Victor sensed that she was freaking out. It wasn't hard to see. He took three strides to the nearest water fountain, cupped his hand under the faucet and then strode two paces back, splashing her in the face.

Sylvia glared at him: "What the _hell_ was that for!"

"You needed to calm down."

"So, you splash me with water?"

"Well, you wouldn't have responded to me if I said 'Liv, you need to calm down'. Right?"

Sylvia sighed, and muttered, "I guess you're right."

Victor took her shoulders; she looked at him carefully.

"It doesn't matter what she's planning," He said reassuringly, his eyes boring into hers, making certain that she wasn't about to freak out again. "You have Gotham by the reigns, and every hoodlum, thug, and hitman at your disposal, including me. Even if you didn't have any of that, you're still the Lark, so—"

"What the fuck, Victor. I'm not a fucking lark."

"Well, that's what people have been calling you."

"Why?" She snapped, pushing him away from her. "I never inspired that nickname—never said it once! Who came up with that name, huh? _Who_!"

"So, you don't like the name?"

"It's not that I don't like the name. I just want to know where it came from and why!"

"It's a _good_ name."

"It's arbitrary. That's like if someone started calling you 'Polar Bear' or a 'Raccoon'. Is it insulting? Not necessarily, but at the same time, wouldn't you be wondering 'why'?"

"I wouldn't mind being called a raccoon, to be honest." Victor admitted jokingly. "They're pretty tidy."

"Fuck you, Victor. I'm trying to have a decent conversation—"

"That's a lot better than you freaking out about how Fish might kill you in your sleep."

"Fuck you! I don't fucking need this right now. I'm _leaving_." Sylvia said strongly, and she started on her heel to put some distance between them.

He held out an arm in front of her and somehow this became a barrier. It stopped her from taking any more steps, and she gave him a look. Victor smiled knowingly.

"You know better than to leave angry."

"I'll leave how I wanna leave."

"Has that ever worked before?"

Sylvia rolled her eyes and she reluctantly returned to him. He grinned from ear-to-ear when she hugged him. He hugged her back.

"How much longer are you going to be here?" Sylvia asked unhappily as she cast a judgmental look on all of the people who were currently sprawled out on the beach, tanning, worry-free.

"A few more days. Then I'll be back in the city."

"Don't take too long."

"See, I knew you missed me."

"Fuck you."

"You first." Victor said, winking at her.

Sylvia rolled her eyes and she walked back to her car.

**Chapter 8: Little Lark**

Oswald sat at the head of the table. The other Heads of the Five Families sat across from him.

Butch stood behind him, along with Gabe.

Mr. Bell stood at the door with his hands clasped together in front of him.

Sylvia sat on Oswald's left side. One of her hands rested on the table innocuously; the other occupied space on Oswald's thigh, closest to his knee, her thumb rubbing circles over his pant leg.

There were topics to discuss, including increasing protection taxes. Strange's monsters had scared half of Gotham's population; the other half were furious that these monsters had taken over the functionality of their homely lives. All five Dons of the Families had grown increasingly restless, and all had questioned their own protection status amongst the rabble. Things as silly as dock taxes, fees for transporting drugs, importing illegal products, and exporting fake things for quick turn of profit were at the bottom of the list.

While one topic was disputed, rejected, accepted, debated and then crossed off the list—Oswald being the judge of what would or wouldn't be acceptable from here on out—Sylvia was never more disinterested in the conversation. No one aside from Oswald would be able to tell; her slighted smile appeared as though she was agreeing with whatever her husband declared, but really, it was because her hand was slowly making its way between his legs.

What made the crooked smile widen was when Oswald slightly re-positioned in his seat so his thighs parted just enough to invite her in. He didn't so much as look at her or even give the notion that anything was happening beneath the table.

In the meantime, the Heads were unhappy.

This included Don Anderson, head of the Anderson Family and father to the late Drake Anderson.

Ronald Maroni represented the Maroni Family. He was actually second-in-line to take the place but his niece, Maria, had declined, not wanting to be a part of the Family's infernal mob line. Ron Maroni was just as portly as his brother, Salvatore, but less hotheaded.

The third was the Dray Family. The Head was Maximillian, who preferred to be called 'Max'. He was gray-haired, and had an elastic face, and was commonly mistaken for a Halloween decoration. But to his credit, he and the rest of his party were always the most sensible and the least unnerved.

Then there were the Belichs of Russian and French descent. The Head of the Family was a Frenchman by the name of Jock. He was in his late twenties, and always wore a symbolic leather brown jacket, and a five o'clock shadow. He could speak both French and English, and regularly had to translate anything that was discussed back to his people.

The last of the Heads was Isaac Paddock, who served in the United States Air Force for nearly 30 years, and after he was denied VA benefits, he turned to a life of crime. As a pilot in the USAF, most of his hearing had gone and he was declared legally deaf by his doctors. He couldn't hear anything, let alone someone talk.

"How great is the protection fee?" asked Don Anderson sarcastically. "People are scurrying to their homes, afraid to walk at night. And how protected are _we_ from these monsters? I saw one rip the roof of a car right off like it was a plastic top for a butter bowl!"

Isaac Paddock, head of the Paddock Family, nodded in agreement, able to read lips and primarily had read Don Anderson's. Being that he was Deaf, Isaac Paddock signed his response.

Oswald glanced at Sylvia for translation.

Sylvia removed her hand from his lap, signing exactly what she was saying so all parties could understand what words were being exchanged, including Oswald.

"Don Anderson," Sylvia translated, "is worried that he, along with the other Heads of the Families, will not be able to protect themselves, owing to the monsters being able to unroof cars. That Gotham's people are scared to walk around the city at night. Mr. Paddock says that Gotham's people have never been able to walk around the city at night, because of people like 'us'."

Paddock smiled, reaffirming what she had said with a sign of his own. A few minutes passed during which Paddock and Sylvia conversed. Whatever was discussed, Paddock appeared not only humored but placated, after which he placed his fingers near his mouth, moved it forward while he smiled sincerely.

"You're welcome." Sylvia returned gracefully.

"Well, _this_ is a jovial discussion." Mr. Dray uttered hoarsely.

Ron Maroni chuckled, "I get it. The joke. Because we don't know what they're saying."

"This is ridiculous," Anderson muttered. He leaned forward and said loudly to Paddock, " _Learn to hear_."

"Mr. Anderson!" Sylvia snapped. " _That_ was rude!"

"Wanna know 'rude'?" He questioned, slowly getting to his feet. "It's when someone like you comes into _my_ home, and slaughters my son right in front of me."

Sylvia frowned and stood as well.

"Your son had not only once but _twice_ tried to undermine me. You're lucky I spared him the first time; otherwise, he'd been dead _long_ ago!"

"What gives you the right! He was stubborn, of _course_ he was, but never did that warrant a death sentence!"

Sylvia leaned over the table to match his aggressive stance: "Mr. Anderson, your son was not only stubborn but he was an idiotic _jackass._ "

" _Enough_!"

Sylvia and Anderson glanced at Oswald who looked irately at them. Wordlessly, the both of them sat down although they leered at one another across the table. Oswald sent Sylvia a warning glance and she shrugged carelessly; her smart remark quelled, at least.

Gabe and Butch, both of whom stood behind Oswald exchanged glances while Mr. Bell, who stood at the door, looked like he'd made up his mind as to whose side he was on.

"There is enough anarchy taking place outside," Oswald said diplomatically. "We do not need a war amongst ourselves. While there was an unnecessary spillage of blood in the past—"

"—Yes, _quite_ unnecessary—" Anderson emphasized, glaring at Sylvia.

"That being _said_ ," Oswald continued loudly to thwart another interruption, "I propose that from here on out, all future assassinations will be discussed with me _prior_ to its due merit."

"The assassination of Drake Anderson _was_ discussed, Oswald." Sylvia declared coldly. (He looked at her calmly.) "I spoke to his father _the day before_." She looked past him to Anderson, adding emphatically, "He never told me _not_ to do it. He even agreed with me that Drake's vile attempt to persuade the other Families to contest me warranted a death sentence!"

She stood and glared at the Head of the Family: "Those were your _exact_ words!"

"I said it _could_ warrant a death sentence, not that it _did_."

"Are you really going to twist your own fucking words?"

"How dare you—"

"You were put in the middle of a dilemma where you chose the business over your own family, and suddenly you want to be the victim. _After_ the fact. Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I said _I_ would punish him! I said _I_ would do it! There was no discussion of a strumpet—"

"—Who the **fuck** are you calling 'strumpet'—"

"—If you behaved like this in the past, the other Families would have—"

"You're not the only one who has been in this business long enough to know what they would have done. _They_ wouldn't have done anything, because they fucking know better!"

"Then I would have—"

"—Would have **what!"** Sylvia challenged.

Anderson had scooted out of his chair and bared over the table to argue with her.

They'd been arguing over the surface, pointing, glaring, spitting curses at one another. While the disarray occurred before their eyes, it prompted the other Families to question their own safety and leadership, throwing them into a panicking shouting session as well. Meanwhile, Gabe and Butch exchanged incredulous glances while Mr. Bell, who was curiously still, stood at the doorway.

Oswald sighed sharply. He took the gun from beneath the table, stood, pointed the gun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. The gunshot silenced everyone, including Anderson and Sylvia who looked as though they'd claw each other's throats out unless someone stopped them.

"That's enough!" Oswald ordered. "We'll circle back to this conversation once the other topics have been discussed."

He politely asked for Anderson to retreat back to his seat, which he did. Oswald sent Sylvia a warning glance but it was hard not to lose his temper with her but could he really blame her for that passionate outburst?

Being made the villain of the piece when she'd done her due diligence…Oswald could empathize with her situation to the fullest degree.

Sylvia sat back down, crossing her legs at the ankle. Oswald watched her until she seemed to (at least physically) calm down. What she was thinking, he didn't want to know.

Paddock looked at all of them. He needn't any translation as to what had been discussed. He was more than perceptive.

"I've not seen Fish anywhere," Ron Maroni mentioned loosely. He said carelessly, "I guess she's down for the count, huh?"

"I still can't even believe she's alive." Mr. Dray said as he rubbed a hand through his grayness of hair.

"Guess she'll be leading the monsters," Maroni said with a dark chuckle. "That sounds like something she'd do."

Sylvia ignored the conversation. She wasn't interested in talking about Fish. In fact, she really didn't feel like being a part of this discussion at all. What she wanted was to smack Anderson over the head with the marble ash tray that currently sat in front of Maroni, who was juicing the hell out of a pipe for the moment.

But since this wouldn't be allowed, Sylvia sought other ways to quell her anger.

She placed her hand on Oswald's thigh, hoping that it would dissipate into something more productive. He watched her carefully before he decided to the move the topic from Fish Mooney to something more profitable: importation and exportation.

With her one hand, she slowly undid the top two buttons of his trousers. Her left hand remained on the table, her thumb fiddling with her wedding ring. From above the surface, not a soul could tell that she was up to no good. Her eyes remained on any one of the Families; normally, it was whomever was speaking at the moment.

Paddock signed a question. Sylvia translated for Oswald: "He wants to know what you plan on doing with the captain at the docks; apparently, he wants to decrease fishing taxes. His workers have been unionizing for better working conditions."

Sylvia leaned into him and whispered, "Evidently, not everyone is so eager to obey you…" She licked his ear. "Not like _me_ , baby."

Oswald took in a sharp breath before he relayed an answer to the men. Her double entendres were seductive, to say the least.

Her hand stroked over his lap and she found a hardened extension of him. Gently, her palm massaged his hard-on so it allowed him to speak without stammering over his words.

"It's easier said than done." Ron Maroni explained, exhaling a large cloud of smoke from his pipe. "Those captains either want decreased taxes or more money. We can pull them to our side if we do both."

"Well, it can come out of _your_ check then," said Belich. "I'm not a….a uh...Quel est le mot que je cherche." He looked Oswald and Sylvia, saying, "uh...'rapiat'?

"Cheapskate," Sylvia and Oswald answered simultaneously.

"Exactly!" Belich said, gesturing emphatically as he turned to Maroni. "I'm not a 'cheapskate'. But how many captains do we have at the ports, hmm? How many do we bank roll a _week_? That's a lot of _money."_

"Well, we decrease their taxes and give them more money. We get more captains, and _we_ get more money."

"That doesn't make any sense," Dray stated. "If you're decreasing your taxes and giving them more money, you're losing all profits!"

"No, but we're getting more men who will get us more money!" Maroni explained passionately. "That's the beauty of it!"

"But you've got to get the men first!" Anderson snapped.

"We have the men!" Maroni explained. "It's so, _so_ simple."

"It's idiotic, that's what it is." Belich said, shaking his head. "What if you lose captains at the docks? Then you're losing money, giving more money to what's left—at the bottom of it, you've cut your profits in half."

"In half?" Maroni responded, surprised. "What's this 'in half' business? I was thinking 'one percent'….this _in half_ business? Where did that even come up?"

" _You_ said it!" Anderson said, gesturing to him.

"I said we'd cut taxes—but not in half! Maybe you should take a day off, man. You're still grieving if you think I'm gonna cut anything in half, never the less the tax!"

While the Dons argued, Sylvia continued her mischievous play. Normally, Oswald wouldn't allow any of this conversation to go out of hand, but he wasn't paying attention to any of it. Instead, he was more concerned with Sylvia's hand slipping inside the waistband of his trousers, her fingers coiling around his stiff cock, teasing him.

She kissed his jawline and he heard her sultry purr: "I want you to bend me over this table and _fuck_ me."

Her dirty whispers were getting to him; she could tell. His cock twitched happily when she spoke to him in her low, soft timbre.

She kissed his neck and blew so softly that her warm kiss became a source of chill. Oswald shuddered when she purposely moaned into his ear, only loud enough where he could hear.

"You don't understand," laughed Maroni. "The tax ain't getting cut in half—"

"Yeah, it's not the tax—it's our profits," Belich reminded unhappily. "That's what you are proposing."

Sylvia rubbed his cock, feeling the muscle of him harden. Her thumb rolled over the tip. With her free hand, she ran her fingers up his chest, over his vest and tie, and then cradled his throat in her palm—their audience, forgotten. As though he was operating purely by instinct, his head craned back; her voice whispered again in his ear: "I want you to fuck me, Oz. Fuck me. _Own_ me."

Oswald took her hand from him—both of them—looking at her as though she'd put him under a spell. Then again, was it far from the truth? Sylvia smirked at him and he looked at the other men in the room who were arguing amongst themselves. Preferring not to stand and reveal to the others what Sylvia had been doing to him under the table, Oswald insisted that they all take a break and come back to the meeting with clearer heads.

Disgruntled, they all left. Meanwhile, Sylvia looked innocently on.

"Boss?" Butch voiced, glancing at Oswald curiously. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong." He responded almost immediately. "If you would, actually, please escort the others out and make sure they stay in the area. I'll have a talk with them the moment I'm finished."

"Finished?" Gabe repeated uncertainly.

"I'm going to speak to Sylvia privately, Gabe."

"Oh." He muttered. He and Butch left with Mr. Bell, along with the others, closing the door on their way out.

Sylvia smirked as Oswald stood, watching her dangerously.

"Why do you look so angry?" She asked, still unable to hide her devious grin. "You look like you were enjoying it."

"Did you mean any of that? What you were whispering to me."

Sylvia said sweetly, "Of course, I meant it. There's nothing hotter to me than watching you work, Oz. You should know what that does to me by now. All this talk of politics and diplomacy….it really gets me worked up."

To prove her point, she scooted out of her chair and walked over to him. Calmly as ever, Sylvia took his hand in hers; she coaxed him to her as she sat on the table, separating her legs and placing his hand under her dress and between them so he could feel how hot and wet she was.

Oswald licked his lips when his fingers ghosted over the pooling wetness in the front of her panties. Yes, he felt it. Her heat.

"I doubt it was the discussion of the people paying a protection tax." He said sheepishly.

"You're right. I could care less about tax. But I _do_ like listening to you talk. There's a reason why I like attending these meetings. And look…See what you do to me without ever even trying?"

Oswald allowed a smug smile to reach his lips. He couldn't help it. He was still amazed by how attracted Sylvia was to him. It was just about as much as he was attracted to her.

He pulled her into a kiss, one that was tender and soft; when his fingers dipped inside her panties and felt the full effect that he had on her, Oswald prodded his tongue between her lips, happily gaining entry with little effort. Sylvia wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Fuck me, Oz." She insisted in between kisses. "Fuck me."

"It's getting harder to deny you anything, Pet."

"That's not the only thing getting harder in this room."

Oswald groaned when she palmed him through his pants.

"They'll be returning in ten minutes."

"Then you best get a move on."

Just hearing her—Oswald threw logic and condition out the door. He proceeded to unbutton his trousers the rest of the way half-haphazardly, and tore Sylvia's panties right off her body. Sylvia wasn't protesting; in fact, the dilation of her pupils grew bigger.

"Own me, baby." She panted.

" _Shut up_."

He pulled her off the table, bent her over it and Sylvia let out a dark chuckle when her dress was lifted above her lower back. Oswald fingered her pussy from behind until her excitement dripped down her thigh.

Her cries were needy and hungry: "Yes, yes…oh my god, _fuck!_ "

The sound of his belt loosening, and his pants dropping made her spine tingle.

He leaned forward, not just to thrust his cock inside her wet pussy but to wrap his hand around her jaw, muffling her moans as he moved in and out of her.

Sylvia was enthusiastic; he didn't have to know what she was saying to understand her emphatic response, but he sensed that she was trying to legitimately tell him something. He hoped she wasn't trying to tell him 'stop'; he doubted he'd be able to contain himself if she did. Oswald lowered his hand from her mouth. Craning her neck to look at him, she spoke.

"Don't be gentle. Fuck me like I'm your whore."

His hand moved to her neck, fingers wrapping around her throat; her head craning back. He moved her closer. Sylvia looked up at him, her eyes wide but filled with lust; her back against his chest, her palm and fingers spread over the table top.

The edge of the table dug into her thighs as Oswald kept her pinned against it. She let out a little, desirable laugh when his grip tightened around her neck.

"You're such a mouthy little brat today, aren't you," He chastised, sliding his cock in and out of her, pumping so fast that the table, holding a great deal of Sylvia's weight, was creaking.

Sylvia responded to him, the creases of her eyes meeting a mischievous smile.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Oswald questioned, reaching down with his free hand to rub her clit. "Knowing there are people outside who can hear you, knowing at any moment they can just walk in—" (Sylvia nodded helplessly) "and see you…."

Sylvia grunted when he pushed her forward on the table completely, his hand leaving her mouth so he could keep her steady; his fingers spread, his palm between her shoulder blades.

"Stay fucking still." Oswald ordered.

Sylvia nodded quickly.

He was breathless, panting even. But his cock moved without a trace of exhaustion slowly inside her pussy, hitting that perfect G-spot, before pulling out completely just to ram itself right back in.

"Hold the table."

Sylvia reached out to the sides and held the edges of the table.

He kissed the nape of her neck so gently, so tenderly. Then he whispered in her ear: "Don't make a sound. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Sir," She answered obediently.

"Good girl."

He pulled back.

Oswald then stood in her vision, putting himself back in order before going to the door. He spoke with a gentleman outside—whether that was Gabe, Butch, Mr. Bell, another house servant, or a Don, Sylvia didn't know. She wanted to hear what he was telling them, but…there was a call for subservience. And she wouldn't disobey.

Sylvia watched as Oswald closed the door once more. He came strolling back, and while she wanted to greet him openly, she waited instead.

"You didn't move." Oswald noted aloud.

"Not a centimeter."

She didn't even turn her head as she acknowledged him.

"Mouthy, but obedient." He praised.

He ran his hands down the bareness of her back, the taut straps of her gown along her shoulders, pulling them down her arms and when he asked her to lift her hands off the table so the straps fell forward and away once she did as he instructed. His touch was simple, soft as he ran his fingers down her body once he stood behind her; simple, feather-light touches, but they were like electric, numbing tingles, which dove straight inside her core.

She turned her head slightly, watching him stand behind her. While he touched every part of her that was revealed to him with one hand, Oswald was stroking himself through his pants with the other. Now, _that_ was a tasty sight.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" He breathed from behind her.

"I have an _idea_." She responded honestly. "What do you plan on doing about it?"

Oswald grabbed her ass with both of his hands, then pulled her gown above her lower back to admire it in its glory. Hearing her remark brought about another jolt of excitement and untethered arousal. He jostled with his trousers, pulling his cock out again and didn't waste any time as he thrusted it deep inside her. She let out a wanton keen.

It didn't take long. Between her lusty moans, her wet, hot walls sheathing and contracting around him, he was certain he wouldn't last much longer. When he saw her nails raking the table, her thighs quaking, Oswald anticipated her orgasm; when she came, she came hard…and he pounded through her climax, listening to her moan and writhe as he did.

"That's it, my little Lark." Oswald moaned. "Sing for me."

Sylvia's moans became louder. He pulled out, turned her around, and lifted her onto the table. The top of her gown fell down the rest of the way, puddling around her waist; Sylvia wrapped her legs around his waist, her hands grabbing at any part of him to make him move closer to her. Her hips desperately lifted to meet his quick pace. He buried his hand between them, rubbing her clit hard until she came again.

And he couldn't hold himself back any longer.

Sylvia moaned, a soft whimper leaving her lips as she felt his cock bury deep inside of her, the feeling of him filling her up in more ways than one. Oswald panted, trying to catch his breath while Sylvia looked up at him.

"'Little Lark'?" She said quizzically, smirking up at him. "So, now _you're_ calling me that too?"

Oswald said reproachfully, "In my defense, it suits you."

Sylvia sat up.

"Fine. I'll be Lark to everyone else. That's fine. Just as long as I'm only _your_ Pigeon." She said, matter-of-fact.

"Always." Oswald promised, smiling happily at her.

**Chapter 9: Barbara Wants A Club**

Six months had passed since Strange's monsters had been released. While Oswald was _more_ than happy to concentrate on that fact (as well as Fish Mooney having disappeared without so much as a blip on anyone's radar but his own), his current priority was planning the best day ever for him and Sylvia.

After all, it was their third-year anniversary.

And a simple fact remained: Oswald had known Sylvia for nearly five years. He loved her to death and beyond, and yet, planning something for her was always a _pain_ in the ass.

While working for Fish, he and Sylvia had met at 'Mooney's'. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Oswald and Sylvia had worked together, each bringing something to the table that Fish liked or wanted. Whether that was Sylvia's cynicism and ability to keep Regulars coming either for the drink or her company, or Oswald's subservience—whatever it was that Fish wanted, they gave it to her in hopes that they could endear themselves to her.

It wasn't until after he and Sylvia were dating that Oswald discovered that Sylvia's main ambition to getting closer to Fish was so that she could get closer to _him_. While working for Fish, they had exchanged platitudes, subtle notions of interest and flirts—mostly on Sylvia's end. She had chased him until he finally said 'fuck it', downed a shot of Jim Beam, and then asked her on a date. Her response still made him laugh to this day when he thought about it: _Well, it's about fucking time,_ she had said.

They had been married for three years. Courting each other for five—the technicalities could really muddy things up, but with love, was there really such a thing as timelines or technicalities? Oswald couldn't believe so.

Still…

He'd gone this far without realizing one difficult matter: Sylvia was the hardest person for whom to plan a _perfect_ day. When it came down to it, all she ever wanted was to spend time with him. Money, gifts—she didn't care about any of it. That wasn't to say that she didn't appreciate anything he gave her from jewelry to buying her lavish dresses; she had many ways of showing it either with praise, hugs, or a gift of her own. However, she was so minimalistic that she was actually high maintenance; it was ironic!

Fish Mooney was out plotting whatever it is she was planning; Strange's monsters were stalking streets, victimizing Gotham's people; and yet, Oswald's predicament remained: What could he do for the love of his life when she really didn't require much of anything?

He'd sent Sylvia out to negotiate prices with the current GCPD Commissioner, talking down the latter's asking price of 10% of all the under-the-table cuts made with his dirtier officers. Oswald had told her that he wanted it at least the 5% range. He could have done this himself; however, it was a distraction. It was just a way to get her out of the mansion so he could talk more openly about what he wanted to do for her.

He held a conference.

Sitting around the table was Gabe, Butch, Delilah, Mr. Bell, Victor Zsasz, and Oswald. Aside from Jim Gordon, these were the people who had known Sylvia the longest. Had Fish Mooney been on his side, Oswald would have even invited her. That's how desperate he was to make sure their anniversary day would go without delay, without interruption, and more importantly, without any hitches.

However, after much deliberation, there wasn't much being accomplished. Exhausted by either the outlandish ideas being tossed around or no bearing to reality, Oswald kicked them out of the room; the only people left in the room were Mr. Bell, Butch, and Gabe; primarily, they were there to be given further orders, and Mr. Bell's placement kept him in the mansion at all times to serve either Sylvia or her husband.

Oswald rubbed his face with his hands, and, almost comically, laid his forehead on the wooden table as though he had exhausted any idea that had been brought to him.

It wasn't as though the crew hadn't come up with any good ideas.

Gabe's inexpensive idea of just staying home, ordering in, being typical homebodies had been the most profitable. It incorporated what Sylvia loved most: spending time with him. Still, Oswald knew that at any moment, someone (be it enemy, gang member, Family Member, or others) could demand to be let inside and the thugs would be intimidated. Especially if it was Jim Gordon who demanded rights to see his own sister. The perfect evening would be interrupted, and therefore, ruined.

So the homebody experience was out.

Mr. Bell offered to buy tickets for Sylvia and Oswald to go to an Opera. That would have been just fine for Oswald, but as superficial and sophisticated as Sylvia tried to make herself seem, he knew better. They shared common interests, but when it came down to it, Sylvia was a Gordon. That fancy life—seeing Operas, wearing fancy dresses and ball gowns—that wasn't his wife. She _did_ wear beautiful tresses and lovely ball gowns, but it was either for her club, his events, or basically to show off her toned legs in short skirts and high heels. When it came down to it: that sophistication just wasn't Sylvia.

So, that was a no-go.

Then there was Butch's idea. He'd met somewhere in the middle.

Going out to the movies. Not a fancy movie theater, just a common, upper middle-class viewing of a hot film. That was almost perfect, except people _knew_ who he was and they knew Sylvia. Going to the common ground where—let's be realistic—there were people who wanted them dead….? Not the safest route. While it was a good idea since Sylvia loved watching movies (especially the horror genre), he wouldn't be able to relax. The movie theater wasn't safe.

There were ways around the gaps of vulnerability, however. Sylvia was not just his wife, or his chauffeur (he could drive but he chose not to), but she was a body guard and an impressive body builder. They both kept a knife on them any time they went out—his knife was kept hidden in his cane; Sylvia kept a switchblade in her pocket and always had one strapped to her thigh (the latter was most common if she wore a dress.).

Despite the arguments Butch cleverly lied out in flattering fashion, the fact remained: Whatever their resources or physical attributes of arming themselves, they would still be left defenseless if the assassin popped up at the right time.

To further eradicate the need for paranoia, Butch offered to go, but Oswald declined. He was trying to find a moment with his wife _alone_. Having Butch there would ruin it.

Then there were suggestions made as to what he could buy as a gift.

Chocolates. Flowers. Jewelry.

Oswald only scoffed. Those were basic.

While he had been admitted to Arkham, Sylvia had kept the kingdom afloat all on her own. For someone who never wanted to manage anything as king-sized as Gotham's Underbelly, she had done it beautifully. And she had done it with a great deal of sacrifice on her part, and she'd only done it for him. He'd never been more in debt to her; and while Sylvia had more than once told him that he owed her nothing in return because she had kept the empire running out of love, there was still much appreciation to be shown on his part.

Something as basic as a box of chocolates, a bouquet of flowers, and a necklace would not be enough. At least, not in his eyes.

Mr. Bell let out a small groan.

Oswald glanced up to see that the manservant was standing a little off, as though he were trying to hide an ailment. He'd heard Sylvia talk about Mr. Bell's unfortunate drop on the coffee table, which had been taken to the carpenter's for repair; perhaps her misgivings about the servant's back injury were not just out of empathy.

"Mr. Bell."

"Yes, sir?" Mr. Bell said, quickly straightening—when he did, that painful grimace of which Oswald was all too aware, returned.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"A little achy," He responded honestly, shaking his head. "But nothing to be pressed about, I assure you, sir."

Oswald considered his words with a nod of his as he, too, straightened. He sat back in his seat, one hand on the table while the other rested on the head of his cane…. ah the cane…yet another gift that Sylvia had given him. It wasn't even for a special occasion—it had been just out of the blue!

Thoughtfully, he peered up at Butch, who readily smiled.

"How long do you think she'll be?" asked Butch, glancing out the door before looking at Oswald once more. "She's pretty good at bargaining—I don't think she'll be much longer with the Commissioner."

He answered unhappily, "You're right, of course. One of her most valuable assets is her ability to negotiate. She and the Commissioner have frequently debated in the past year. He knows how she works, by now."

Gabe muttered, "I figure after all this time, he'd just accept it and go."

"I know, right?" Butch chuckled. "He should know the drill by now; she's gonna eventually wear him down…might as well just go with it." He paused. "It's been, what, about twenty minutes, wouldn't you say?"

"What's your _point_ , Butch?" Oswald said irritably.

"If you were going to plan something in the next ten minutes, you better come up with something quick."

"This _isn't_ a surprise party."

Gabe asked, "When's your anniversary date?"

"Next week."

"And you're planning now?"

"Yes." Oswald answered. He leaned forward and said pointedly, "I don't care much for your _tone_."

Butch raised a hand and his metal one as though defending both himself and Gabe, and said calmly, "We're just saying, Boss. Some people wait until a day or two before they start to plan something. You're planning pretty early…you know…in comparison."

"I would have actually started months ago," Oswald admitted grumpily as he sat back once more. "If not for Fish, Strange, and everyone else…well, that doesn't matter now."

Butch stepped up and then sat in a chair closest to Oswald, who looked at him expectantly. Hearing another groan, Butch and Oswald turned their sights to Mr. Bell who, for the moment, was bent forward, his hands on his knees and that painful expression back on his face. This time, there was no attempt to hide it.

"Mr. Bell."

"Sir, I _assure_ you, I'm fine."

"Be that as it may," Oswald sighed, "I think you ought to make an appointment to see your doctor."

Mr. Bell lifted his gaze to him, pleading.

"If you don't do it for yourself, do it for Sylvia," He warned. "You know how she is."

Taking his suggestion under advisement, Mr. Bell bowed his head as though in defeat, and then with a noticeable slower gait, he walked out of the living room towards the nearest phone to place a call to his doctor. When the servant had left the room and was out of ear shot, Butch looked at Oswald inquisitively.

"Seems like he's starting to go down."

"Yes. I've noticed too."

"If something happens to him, I'm not gonna be the one to tell Liv." Butch said quickly, tapping the table top with his fleshy hand. "She gets so emotionally attached to her people…whenever I've had to tell her something about one of them, it feels like a death sentence."

"If he ends up having to go to the doctor, either he or I tell her."

"Right. You can soften the blow better than I can."

"At least we can agree on that."

There was a moment of silence before Butch spoke: "Are you _sure_ you want to pass on the movie idea? I could sit in the back row."

"In the back row? That's not going to solve anything."

"I won't be in the way."

"No."

"I won't even talk. I'll even pay for the tickets."

" _No._ "

"You can think of me as a chaperone. When you two are together, you act like a couple of teenagers in love anyway."

"Get out."

"Okay, okay. I'm leaving." Butch said although he was chuckling as he let himself out of the living room.

After Sylvia had finished negotiating with the Commissioner, she went to a coffee shop. Not only was it because her sweet tooth egged her on for a vanilla latte, but because she had received one simple text. The sender: unknown. It only read: _We need to talk._ \- B.

Seeing as the coffee shop was small, remote, and not sanctioned in the seedier places of the city, she didn't plan on anything horrific happening. Sylvia ordered two coffees and sat at a booth furthest from any windows; it was in the corner, in a smoking section. A black, plastic ash tray was provided in the center of the table, along with condiments of regular sugar and sweet-n-low packets, salt and pepper shakers, creamers (French Vanilla, and original), and assorted brown and white napkins.

At the moment, she favored jeans, open-toed flats, and a black sweatshirt. Casual, but comfortable. Her visit to the Commissioner had been nearly the same.

After a time, the Commissioner had become easier to negotiate with. By all means, he was a lot more reasonable than Loeb.

It had been a fair discussion; the debate of prices had only lasted five minutes; the other twenty minutes was mainly talk about movies—she even recommended a few films which had been rated R for gore and language, two things that Sylvia absolutely loved.

She took her phone out from the back pocket of her jeans, and sent a text to Oswald.

_Cut is 3%. Also, he says 'hi'._

A minute passed, probably during the time where Oswald would feel the received vibration of her message. Sylvia could practically see the look of satisfaction when he read her text. A small 'ting' sounded as she received his response.

_I knew you could do it. Thank you. Where are you now?_

Sylvia chuckled. Always asking for her location.

_Coffee shop. Do you want anything?_

His message almost came back immediately:

_You know I don't drink coffee._

Sylvia's only response was a smiley-face.

_:)_

The small cow bell hanging over the door frame of the front entrance rang.

Sylvia wasn't surprised when she looked up from her phone to see Barbara Kean walking in, wearing the most beautiful ocean-blue sequenced, silk blouse and knee-high short black skirt that money could buy. The woman's heels tapped the tile with a sharp 'click'.

If Sylvia had an alter ego, its name would be Barbara Kean.

The woman was dressed from head to toe in glamour, as she always had been in contrast to Sylvia's attire which were jeans and a T-shirt. Armed with a passion for all that was finery, Barbara had grown up with these sorts of mannerisms, which included a greeting of a Euro kiss.

Sylvia stood, appeased her with one of her own kiss-on-the-cheek greetings, then Barbara sat across from her in the booth. Wordlessly, Sylvia gently pushed the extra coffee cup in her direction, and Barbara smiled gratefully.

"Is it...?"

"Mm-hmm."

"You remember how I like my coffee," Barbara said appreciatively. She took a sip. "Extra sweet."

Sylvia leaned back in her seat, sitting crisscrossed with her feet on the cushion as Barbara took a few more sips, closing her eyes, savoring the flavor. Meanwhile, Sylvia eyed her carefully.

Back in the day when Barbara hadn't been insane, they had been good friends. Barbara had been dating her brother, and Sylvia had always made a point to bond with any of the girls Jim claimed to be his significant other...even if Jim didn't care to return the favor. For a long time, she and Barbara had lunches—she would go to Barbara's art museum, talk trash about the other art galleries, and even talk about Jim's snoring.

Seeing Barbara now, it felt like two lifetimes ago. And she expressed the same sentiment.

"It's been a long time since we did this, _huh_ , girlfriend," She said happily, winking at her.

"Yes, it has."

"You have a weird look on your face. What's wrong?"

"You really don't know?"

"How could I know? I'm not a mind reader."

"No. You're definitely not."

Barbara sighed, raising her eyebrows high while her gaze was fixated on her coffee. It was an expression of apathetic defeat, as though she knew Sylvia would see through her intentions immediately, although she had hoped to fool her a little while longer.

"Fine." Barbara said, frowning a little. "Why do you think I'm here?"

"You don't want to know what I think." Sylvia said, ghosting over her response. She glanced at the other space on the cushion beside Barbara, asking, "Where's your lesser half?"

"My lesser half?…O _h_ , you mean Tabitha."

"You are hardly ever one without the other these days. I thought she'd come here too."

"Did you?"

"Why do you think I only bought _you_ coffee."

"That's a little childish, don't you think?"

"Childish, but effective." Sylvia folded her hands on the table, her phone lying beside her on the cushion. "You had a purpose for coming here, didn't you?"

"Maybe I just wanted to see my favorite—"

"Cut the shit, Babs."

Barbara looked surprised, putting a hand over her chest: "Well, I can certainly see that you've not changed in the slightest, have you? You still have that mouth of yours."

"Your parents were rich assholes." Sylvia said pointedly. "You should know that—you killed them, after all. Personally, if you hadn't slaughtered them, _I_ would have, so kudos. But as far as I am concerned, you can keep your upper class goody-goody-Miss-Lady crap to yourself. I don't change my language or my attitude, no matter who sits in my company. So I'd hope you would do me the same respect and stop acting."

"Acting...?"

"You didn't come here to talk, have coffee, or just catch up on good times. You came here for a reason. And you came by yourself, knowing I hate Tabitha. That wasn't by incident, that was on purpose. You're buttering me up. That tells me you want something from me. So, what is it?"

Barbara drank the last of her coffee, scooting it across the surface so she could put her hands on the table. She looked as though she might try to argue her way out of Sylvia's observations but seeing as she was caught in the act, a small smile tightened her lips.

"Fine." She said softly. "You caught me."

"An admission of guilt," Sylvia chuckled. "I bet Strange didn't get that much from you, did he?"

"Well, he got something, obviously."

"Right. Because you have a certificate."

"That's right. I do."

"Congratulations, by the way." Sylvia said, smiling sincerely. "I've been in that place a few times. Not as a patient, but as a guest—and one time, as an intruder. The place looks and sounds like hell, from what Oswald has told me. I can't imagine what it was like being in there. So congratulations for getting out. I mean it."

Barbara sighed, shrugging a shoulder carelessly: "That's the past. I can't live in the past. I can only live in the present."

"True. Good outlook."

"Yes. It's helped me move forward."

"So where are you living now?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Butch kicked you out," Sylvia recalled, gesturing to her. "You were creeping him out or something, I don't know. He kicked you out of the mansion. I just wanted to know where you were living."

"Why, so you can kill me?"

At this, Sylvia frowned.

"I don't want to kill you, Babs." She reassured, leaning forward. "I _do_ want to help you. If you needed somewhere to stay, I would be able to help you, you know. While you're, by no means, the same person you were when we met, I still consider us to be friends….in some weird, awkward, frenemy type of way."

"I'm living with Tabitha."

"Now _her_ on the other hand—"

"Liv."

" _What_?" Sylvia responded defensively. "You _know_ what she's done. She isn't innocent, by any means."

Barbara chuckled, "Oh, I know. Believe me."

Sensing that she meant that in a whole other way, Sylvia rolled her eyes and decided not to discuss Tabitha Galavan any further. However, the topic itself seemed to relieve whatever tension that had been stirred up, and Sylvia felt herself become complacent enough.

"For what it's worth. I prefer you this way."

Barbara smiled: "Well, thank you. I like me this way too. So….do you care to listen to what I have to say?"

"If you buy me another latte, I might."

"Deal. _Waiter_!" Barbara called, signaling the waiter over to them. She glanced in her direction, saying, "I hate these people. They never come over in time."

Sylvia frowned: "I used to _be_ a waitress."

"Oh…well, then I take back what I said."

"Mm-hmm. The damage is done, Babs. Let's just accept it and go on."

The waiter came by, took Barbara's order for two more lattes, and was about to leave but Sylvia made a soft sound so that the waiter returned back to the table, expectantly. He was a tanned man who wore polished black shoes, pressed and creased pants, and a steamed white shirt. Everything about him was squared away, not even a lock of brunette hair stood out of place.

She looked him over, while Barbara watched interestedly.

"Hi," Sylvia greeted sweetly. "What's your name?"

"Byrd."

"No, your first name. What's your _first_ name?"

"Demetri."

"'Demetri'. How old are you, Demetri?"

"I'm eighteen."

"Eighteen? You don't look a day over fifteen."

He was muscular, toned well in his forearms and biceps. He even had some definition in his chest and neckline. While he actually did look his age, Sylvia found his reaction to her compliment amusing as he damn near blushed to the color of a tomato.

"How long have you been working here, Demetri?"

"A few months."

"Do you like this job?"

"It's...it's okay."

"How's your boss?" Sylvia interviewed.

"He's…also okay."

"Do you mind if I ask how much money you're making in an hour?"

"No, ma'am. Um, I make about seven dollars."

"In an _hour_?" Sylvia responded incredulously.

"Yes, ma'am. Well, that's without tax, you know."

"Mmm."

Demetri cleared his throat and said curiously, "Ma'am, if you don't mind…Why are you asking me these questions? Did…Did I do something wrong?"

"Wrong? Of _course_ not," Sylvia said, smiling sweetly. "You're doing a fantastic job, love. In fact, I was wondering whether or not you would be interested in making a better wage?"

"I mean…sure?"

"It wouldn't be for _this_ kind of work," She explained, gesturing to the coffee shop. "Have you heard of a place called 'Lean on Vee's'?"

"Yeah, I've heard of it."

"You look like you're in really good shape, like you take care of yourself. Have you ever been a bouncer before?"

Blushing harder, Demetri let out a nervous laugh, "Well, I don't think—I mean, I've never been given the chance to **be** one…"

"Do you have any kids?"

"No, Ma'am."

"What about a wife or husband?"

"No, Ma'am."

"Are you easily intimidated by people?"

"Only beautiful women." Demetri answered.

Barbara, who had been watching the conversation with subtle interest, chuckled, "Ooh, _smooth_."

"Shut up, Babs." Sylvia hissed.

Demetri seemed shot down by Barbara's comment but he glanced appreciatively at Sylvia, who stood from her seat. She asked for a piece of paper and pencil, both of which Demetri eagerly gave her. She wrote down the address to her club, the duty hours, and then her own phone number.

"If you want the job," She stated, business-like, "it's yours. You seem like you can take care of yourself." She gave him a once-over. "Strong. Muscle-y." She poked his bicep, adding, " _Very_ muscle-y. Tell me, do you bench press?"

"About two-hundred."

"Hm, I got you beat," Sylvia said, smirking at him. "We're gonna have to fix that, got it? I'll even pay you for your time in the gym as long as you are able to intimidate my Regulars into _not_ destroying any more of my furniture."

Sylvia glanced at Barbara, ignoring Demetri for a second as she explained, "There was a bar fight the other night, and I've never had to order so many repairs in the past."

Demetri smiled shyly, saying, "What…What will I be making an hour?"

Both women glanced at him simultaneously.

Sylvia answered him: "I'll start you at about fifteen an hour. If my Regulars don't scare you the first week, your paycheck doubles. Acceptable?"

" _More than acceptable_! I'll do it, I'll do it! Wh-What should I wear?"

"Whatever you want. But make sure it's decent, you know. If I come into work and I see your bits and pieces hanging out of a speedo or something, I'll have to kick you out, got it?"

"Yes, ma'am! Thank you, ma'am! Oh my god….!" He praised, and he was about to leave before Sylvia pulled him back by the collar of his shirt. He looked surprised.

"Don't forget the lattes."

"Oh, right! Right!" He left shortly to fix them.

She watched him do so and then sat back in her seat. Barbara looked plenty amused.

"That's how you find people, huh?" She asked, smirking.

"That's how I find **my** people." Sylvia confirmed victoriously. "I find people who want to prove themselves, or who want respect. Normally, I just take people off the streets, you know. Give them a job, some food—once I do that, they're normally glued to me."

"So why him?" Barbara sniffed, glancing after the waiter, clearly unimpressed. " _He's_ not homeless."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Look at how he's dressed."

"Well, you can't go off looks. He could _be_ homeless. He could wear the same clothes every single fucking day until he gets enough money to put them in the wash so he can come to work and earn more money. You never know."

"Classic Sylvia Gordon," Barbara sighed. "Always cheering for the Under Dog."

"Damn straight."

"And marries them too."

Sylvia shot her a warning look.

Demetri came by with the two vanilla lattes. Sylva gave him a fifty-dollar tip. He looked like he might have had a heart attack when he saw how much she'd given him. Gently, she pulled him to the side. He looked like he was ready to do anything for her.

"Let me ask you a personal question."

"Anything, ma'am. Anything!"

Sylvia said quietly so only she, Demetri, and Barbara could hear her: "Are you living anywhere right now?"

Demetri turned that familiar shade of red. This time, to his chagrin.

"Ma'am, I…I don't know what you mean."

Barbara watched him with a predatory gaze, eager to know whether Sylvia's hunch was correct. There was nothing at stake, except for the man's humiliation.

"You know what I mean." Sylvia responded softly. "Tell me."

Demetri's eyes were glossy, like he was about to cry. His face appeared nearly sunburnt as his shame came to the surface. In a voice barely louder than a whisper, he said, "Ma'am…I don't live anywhere. I-I live in a car. It's…not even my car…I…."

"That's enough." Sylvia reassured, patting his shoulder.

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, looking at her fearfully. He hoped that his truth didn't befall him in what looked like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. To his amazement, Sylvia's words were not only comforting, but shocking to him.

"I don't want my staff sleeping in cars…especially in one that doesn't belong to you. I don't need that on my conscience. Now, Demetri. If you want to work for me, you'll have to come to work looking your best. In the same way you look now, you got it?"

Demetri nodded.

"Here." Sylvia took out a checkbook, wrote a check, ripped it out of her book, and placed it in his hand. "You take this, you go to the bank, cash it _now_ , and find yourself an apartment that you can afford. Preferably nothing in the Narrows, okay? I've conducted business disputes there, and let's just say, it's _not_ the best."

"Right, ma'am. Right. Oh, thank you, thank you, _thank you_ —I can't even begin—oh my god, _thank you_ ," Demetri said repeatedly, shaking Sylvia's hand vigorously.

"Okay, okay," Sylvia said, taking her hand out of his grip. "No problem. You can leave now."

"But my boss—"

"I'll tell him." Sylvia reassured.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Demetri bowed to her and then quickly left. Sylvia sat back down, looking at Barbara, who looked back at her with a knowing smile.

"You _knew_ he was homeless." She said slyly. "Didn't you?"

"Mm-hmm. Been watching him come into this shop with the same outfit over, and over, and over, and over again. And I was in need of a bouncer for quite some time."

"I'm surprised you didn't offer the job to Jim."

"Well, I did, but he refused."

"Good ol' Jim."

"Yeah."

"Still holding onto that White Knight complex?"

"By a thread."

"So, is Demetri Byrd the only reason you agreed to come meet me at this coffee shop?"

"Yep." Sylvia sighed contently, leaning back in her seat and relaxing her arms on the back of the couch-like booth. "I figured if you were going to come here on business, I'd conduct a little of my own. Speaking of business, what is yours?"

"Nice segue."

"Thanks! I thought so too."

Barbara sipped from her second latte, and said with her own business tone, "I want a club."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me."

"I'm guessing the art gallery doesn't have the same appeal to you anymore."

"' _Art_ '," Barbara scoffed. "I think I only owned that gallery just to attract wealthy men and women."

"Well, that really backfired on you, didn't it?"

"Well, I admit that Montoya and Jim weren't the people I had in mind when I opened the club, but _you_ were."

Sylvia cocked an eyebrow, saying humorously, "Whatever gave you the impression I was rich back then?"

"I figured you'd have eventually gotten to that point." Barbara said, smirking at her. "What with you robbing banks on a biweekly basis. You'd have found your way to me eventually if you hadn't married Penguin."

"You mean the ' _Under_ _Dog_ '."

Barbara found her own tease biting her back, but she climbed down from her pedestal and chose to take the heat; after all, she'd been so daring to stoke the flame.

They drank from their lattes for a minute before the business was further conducted.

"You want a club," Sylvia said, encouraging her to continue.

"Yes."

"You need money to _start_ that club."

"I'm well aware of that."

"And you're coming to me for that reason?"

"Is it not that obvious?"

"I just wanted you to say it. After all, I feel like I deserve that much."

"For what?"

"For the crap you pulled at the church."

"What crap?"

"Oh, please, like you don't remember."

Barbara shrugged innocently.

"You kidnapped Jim and Lee, brought them to a church, and held the two of them at gun point. You tried to kill the both of them!" Sylvia reminded harshly, making Barbara flinch. "That was a lot of unnecessary stress you put my family through. And that's just the crap _you_ did. Should I tack on the times where Theo Galavan was actually involved? You know, when he was holding Gertrud for leverage over my husband's head?"

"I wasn't involved in that."

"You knew about it, didn't you?"

"Well, of _course_ I knew about it, but I wasn't a part of it."

"You played a part in _all_ of it. You didn't do anything to stop it. Taking that into consideration, you were involved, whether complicit or otherwise."

"I fell off a church and I was in a coma for weeks. That wasn't enough?" Barbara asked indignantly.

Sylvia gestured to their situation and said smoothly, "Obviously not."

"Well, I'm sorry for what I did."

"Which part?"

"For what happened with Jim."

"But you're not sorry for what you did to Lee?"

"Lee can suck my left nut sack."

"Since you don't have one, that means little to me," Sylvia remarked, grinning widely. "Normally, I'd tell you to fuck off. But I'm trying to be more forgiving, you know? A little more lenient. So, this is what I want in exchange for giving you a down payment for your club. I just want to hear you say 'I need money from you, Sylvia'."

"You just want to gloat, don't you?"

"Oh yes! Yes, I _definitely_ do!" Sylvia laughed. "This is fun for me. I'd be happier if I had Tabitha begging for it, but let's be honest: We wouldn't have gotten this far in conversation if she had been here."

Barbara sent her a look of absolute loathing.

"Just be happy that I'm not asking you to do anything so risqué. They're just words, you know. You don't even have to _mean_ it. Just say the words."

Barbara rolled her eyes and scoffed, "Fine, fine…I want money from you, Sylvia."

"Nope. Not the same."

"I said it!"

"You don't 'want' money from me. You 'need' it. After all, that's why you're coming to me, isn't it? You can't get it anywhere else—except for robbing stores, or what-have-you. But you're classier than that, aren't you, Rich Girl? Why rob from anyone else when you can just make a deal with me? And for what you're getting, I'd say it's a really damn good deal." Sylvia said smugly. "Now, say 'I need money from you, Sylvia'. You say that, exactly. Then we have a deal."

Barbara groaned and managed with a forced smile: "I need money from you, Sylvia."

"Cool." Sylvia said happily. She wrote a check and then handed it to Barbara, who reluctantly pocketed it in the front of her blouse. "Just so you know, that felt _really_ good."

"I'm sure it did," Barbara returned sarcastically.

Sylvia drank the last of her latte, and watched Barbara look at her with some amusement. She checked her phone for any messages.

Oswald's had come in about ten minutes ago:

_I love you, Pigeon._

She sent one back:

_I love you too, sweetheart_

Sylvia said lightly, "What kind of club are you thinking of building?"

"A nightclub."

"Do you have a name for it?"

"I want it to be called 'The Sirens'."

"Is it an all-woman's club?"

"No. It's just going to be owned primarily by women."

"Just women."

"Yes."

"And by 'women', I assume you mean it's going to be owned by more than just you." Sylvia said coolly.

"Liv…."

"You don't hang around many other women, so that must mean you want Tabitha in on this as well." Sylvia figured it out before Barbara could put a little positive spin on it.

"Liv, she doesn't want the club. _I_ do."

Sylvia crossed her arms, almost in a pout. Still, her voice was calm, however, it did contain a tinge of resentment: "You wanted me to give you money for a club _you_ want but you and _Tabitha_ are going to run it. That's what you're telling me."

"Basically."

She scooted out of her seat and then sat directly beside Sylvia, who watched her with curiosity, if not suspicion.

"I should rip up that check right now." She uttered through gritted teeth. "I **hate** that bitch."

"It's a favor you'll be doing for _me_. I'll owe you one in return. I know how much you and Oswald appreciate favors." Barbara mewed as she made a sweet, pouting baby face: "Please, let me have the club? Please? _Pwetty, pwetty_ please?"

When Barbara put a hand on Sylvia's thigh, Sylvia didn't just get out of her seat; she hopped over the table, and jumped down on the ground.

" _Whoa_ ," Sylvia gasped. She held her hand out to Barbara, almost cautiously, as she said, "It's not that I _wouldn't_ take that offer. I wouldn't—couldn't—Never mind, _look_ , if you want the club enough to try and do…well, _whatever_ it is you were about to do, then **fine** , I'll let you keep that check. But none of _that_."

"You've thought about it, haven't you? You and me…"

"Who hasn't." Sylvia said, glancing up at the ceiling. It was her turn to feel her face get a little hot from the thought. To save her dignity, she said strictly, "From here on out, our relationship must stay professional. Nothing more."

"Understood." Barbara acknowledged, smiling. She stood and held out her hand.

Sylvia shook it.

"Just so you know," Barbara said lowly, stepping closer to her. "Your demands—whether they were risqué or not—were lenient. Still, you had me in the palm of your hand."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, let's just say…I know _I_ have thought about us. On more than one occasion." Barbara said, smiling wickedly. Her lips grazed Sylvia's cheek, as she whispered, "When I'm in bed, left alone with _that_ thought, I daresay it's climactic."

She kissed Sylvia on the cheek, but her lips lingered too long for it to be considered a 'Euro-kiss'. She pulled away, smiling impishly before waving ("See you later, girlfriend"), and then she was out of the coffee shop.

**Chapter 10: A Mother Hen To Us All**

Chapter Ten: Mother Hen To Us All

Sylvia came home around dinner time. As she strolled through the front door, she noticed Mr. Bell sitting in the living room. That alone was an interesting sight; she'd never really seen him sit before, at least, not without permission of any sort. He was always doing _something_ : walking, strolling, standing, cleaning, fighting (when she and Mr. Bell had been training)...but never really _sitting_. And he had the saddest look on his face; perhaps a death in the family?

When she came into the living room fully, Mr. Bell glanced up at her.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur Bell." She greeted, trying to cheer him up. He had a trace of French descent, and she aimed to cheer his spirits with his native language.

"Bonsoir, Madame."

Sylvia looked at him curiously. He never looked so sad. She approached him and sat in an armchair in front of a lively fireplace, looking across at her manservant, empathetic.

"Quel est le problème?" Sylvia asked, concerned.

Mr. Bell lifted his eyes to hers and said sadly, "I have osteosarcoma."

Sylvia's eyebrows stitched together, understanding that this wasn't good news at all, but not understanding the gravity of it. At that moment Olga walked into the room to clean a few things before registering Sylvia's serious glance. Immediately, the housemaid excused herself in her own native language before she left the room.

"What is that?" Sylvia asked gently.

"It's cancer."

"Cancer. You have it?"

"I was just as surprised as you are."

"But how did you find out?"

"I went to the doctor."

"You went to the…?" She gasped.

"Yes. Mr. Cobblepot noticed I was in pain and he strongly recommended that I see my physician. I refused initially, but…Anyway, I went and they found it." He held out his hands sentimentally. "Apparently, it has been there for a while. I've been in pain, but it's nothing I couldn't handle, you know."

"Of course."

"If I hadn't fallen on the table—"

"—Well, you broke the table—"

"—That too. We wouldn't have known."

Sylvia bit her bottom lip, uncertain what to say. It was the first time she'd been stumped in a long time. She could handle torture victims, but when it came to heavy situations such as these, she didn't know what to say. What _could_ she say?

"Monsieur Bell…."

He held up a hand, to stop her from speaking.

He said softly, "I know what you're going to ask. It doesn't look good. I'm at a survival rate of 5 years; that's optimal. However, the cancer has spread so much that my chance of surviving to at least the five-year mark is fifteen to thirty percent. That's what the doctors are telling me, at least."

Sylvia stared at him.

Sportingly, she said, "Mr. Bell, I'll be honest. I wouldn't put much worth into what these Gotham doctors have to say about 'health'. These are the same people who—"

"Sylvia, it is what it is."

She nibbled on the inside of her cheek nervously.

"Are you seeking treatment?"

"I'm getting on in age." Mr. Bell said quietly, lowering his hands to his knees. "My back hurts all the time. My knees hurt…people are starting to notice now. For a while there, I thought I would be able to hack it, get through it, but I'll be honest. I've fought for a long, _long_ time. Now, where I am and knowing why I've been the way I've been, I'm just tired of fighting."

He held out his hand. She gingerly put hers in his palm. It was like a child's in a gorilla's hand.

"Mr. Bell, you're not this type person. You don't lie down for anyone or anything. You fight."

"This is different."

"What's different?" Sylvia responded; her voice hitched with a pain he didn't fail to notice. "It's cancer. So what. People live through stage four cancer _all the time_. People are coming back from the dead with supernatural strength and abilities, and there are cures to things that I didn't even know existed. And you think cancer is the end-all, be-all? Fuck that. It's not, it's—"

Mr. Bell laughed quietly. But it wasn't joyful. Not really. It was like he was nostalgic, like he had heard Sylvia's pep talks one too many times, and perhaps this was a time where she thought she could get through to him. Mr. Bell smiled at her appreciatively; despite the sadness in them, it reached his eyes.

"I've lived through wars. I've been on both ends of the torture routine. I've fought alongside my friends, and I've been more than happy to fight alongside you. You are the protege that I never thought I could ever have. You learned everything I taught you so quickly, and I fear that I have nothing else to give you."

Sylvia took her hand from his, staring at him.

"Why do you sound like you're saying good-bye?"

Mr. Bell stood painfully to his feet. She, however, remained still.

"I want you to remember me as you see me right now," He said, puffing his chest out so he appeared younger, more confident. "I want you to remember me as your mentor, as your trainer. I don't want you to see what I look like after chemotherapy treatments, or whatever else comes next."

"So, you're leaving?" Sylvia questioned knowingly, standing. She couldn't keep her voice from cracking.

Mr. Bell wasn't a stranger to her anger. He looked at her when she spoke, noticing the strength of her angry lines diminish her empathetic glow.

"After everything we've been through, you're just going to leave?"

"It's my choice—"

"You work for _me_ , Mr. Bell. I'm telling you to stay." Sylvia ordered. Tears started clouding her vision. A pang, an aching pain was growing in her chest, like she had swallowed a larger piece of meat than she should have. It almost choked her.

"Sylvia—"

"You can't leave. Your place is here, with me, with us. This is your home."

He opened his mouth to speak but she was readily firing off anything in order to keep him from talking any more. Her thought process was child-like: if he couldn't say where he was going and what he was doing, then he couldn't.

He started to leave; he couldn't bear to see her cry. Not a strong woman like her.

But as strong as she was physically and as mentally tough as she had become, Sylvia had no restraint or toughness when it came to her staff. She was emotionally attached to them, all right. As Mr. Bell had begun to leave, her hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve so he couldn't escape.

"You can't go."

"Sylvia…."

"You just can't!"

Mr. Bell attempted to pull out of her grasp, but she kept holding on. She was almost like a child. For him, it was like seeing one of his children crying because he was about to leave home. Like he'd done before. He came back then.

"You're the closest thing I've had to a Dad in a while. Please don't go. Please. _Please_."

Mr. Bell stopped pulling away. Instead, he gathered her into his arms and waited for her cries to ebb away, for her tears to stop falling. Mr. Bell had watched her fall apart, and due to this, they were both on the floor; his back against the foot of the armchair and Sylvia on the floor with him.

It was at that point when Oswald entered the room, having heard the commotion from the kitchen. He saw the scene before him, and he looked to Mr. Bell for an explanation. The latter made a gesture to himself then to Sylvia and Oswald immediately registered his meaning. Apparently, the same news that had been brought to him earlier by the manservant himself had now been given to Sylvia as well.

"I have a plane to catch," Mr. Bell said gently, lightly tugging her hands from his sleeves. "I'm going back home to Nebraska. I must see my family."

"You can't go…"

Yes. Like a child, Mr. Bell thought. Why would she care if he missed his flight? Why would she care if he couldn't see his family for another month or so? All she wanted was to keep things normal for just a moment longer.

Sensing that Sylvia would be a problem, Oswald and Mr. Bell exchanged unfortunate expressions. Considering that Sylvia saw Mr. Bell as a father, it would only make it worse. Her father had a certain detachment, it seemed; whatever her detest towards the DA lawyer proved to be, Sylvia still had a daughter's love for him; it wasn't the same love as Jim Gordon's, but a father was a father, even if he did favor her brother more and made his favoritism known. Now that Mr. Bell was on his way out and he'd likely never visit Sylvia again after this, Oswald was certain that she was having a replay of the night she'd lost her father (and possibly her mother).

Yes, this would be a problem.

"Sylvia…." Mr. Bell said weakly. "Please. _Please_ don't make this harder for me than it already is."

"You're not going anywhere," Sylvia said evenly as Mr. Bell stood up.

"Mr. Cobblepot, would you…"

Oswald sighed and walked over to them, anticipating the worst as he tried to collect his wife; Mr. Bell pried Sylvia's hand off his arm.

"Sylvia," Mr. Bell said patiently. "You're the daughter I never had. I love you like my own. But you must be strong, okay? I know you can be. You're intelligent, and stronger than I've ever been. I've never been prouder."

"You can't go. You can't. Please, stay. _Please_?"

Mr. Bell looked at Oswald, a cue. He nodded. Mr. Bell started to leave. And Sylvia Cobblepot, who was currently thirty-two years old, threw herself into the mindset of a devastated five-year-old. There had never been a worse temper tantrum!

Mr. Bell sprung for the door, picking up a suitcase that had been sitting by the entrance. Outside of the mansion was a cab that had been waiting for him. He took one look back, smiling sympathetically at her, before he headed out to meet the driver. Meanwhile, Oswald grabbed Sylvia, locking his arms around her, hoping to god she wouldn't fight.

His hopes were immediately dismissed as she pushed him off; she even had gone so far as to decking him in the jaw in order to get to the butler before the cab driver whipped out from the driveway on the way to the airport.

"Gabe!" Oswald shouted. " _Butch_!"

Gabe and Butch, both of whom held tranquilizing syringes, ran into the room. All of them had been anticipating that this would happen once the news had been given. It took all three of them and four more syringes to get Sylvia down on the ground.

Ten minutes later, she lied on her stomach, her head in Oswald's lap, fully sedated; he, Butch, and Gabe were slowly trying to catch their breath, all of them sitting on the floor.

"See." Butch said breathlessly, glancing at Oswald, who rubbed his jaw where she had hit him. "I _told_ you she'd react this way."

"It's sweet though," Gabe said, smiling a little. When Oswald and Butch stared at him, he added, "It's nice to know she cares this much. About all of us. Mother Hen to us all."

To this, neither Butch nor Oswald could contest.

**Chapter 11: Jim and Sylvia's Mother**

"I'm glad you came," Oswald told Jim as the latter was escorted into the living room by Olga. Once Jim was in the room, she quickly left to finish her chores.

"I doubt I had a choice," Jim responded hoarsely. He sat in an armchair, opposite of Oswald's. "Where's Sylvia?"

"In bed, asleep." He answered, sitting down to mirror Jim.

"It's four-thirty in the afternoon."

"Yes, it's actually part of the reason why I've asked you to come. Would you like something to drink?"

"No thanks. What's wrong with her?"

"Hear me out," Oswald warned.

The caution alone made Jim suspicious. But since it pertained to Sylvia, Jim doubted Oswald would have done anything harmful to her. The situation itself may have warranted the temporary break of whatever statute of limitations Oswald had regarding Sylvia. Even if that was the case, he was prepared to listen, but his fists remained clenched on the arms of his chair.

Oswald told him what happened, regarding Mr. Bell's condition, as well as his departure.

Once he mentioned the syringes that had ultimately put Sylvia on her ass for the past twenty-four hours, Jim stood up suddenly, grabbed Oswald by the collar of his shirt, and said furiously, "You _drugged_ her! Why the hell would you do that! What the hell were you _thinking_!"

Familiar with Jim's anger, Oswald quickly held up his hands and said, "You know how she is, **Jim**. She was fighting—"

"—So, you _drug_ her—"

"—I had no other options—"

"You could have tried talking her down—"

"I swear to you, Jim, if that still had been an option, don't you think I would have taken it!" Oswald argued, pushing Jim away from him. "Haven't you realized it yet? Sylvia is not the same person with whom you were raised! You cannot simply restrain her, talk her down, and expect her to do what you say. That's impossible, and _you_ , above all, should know that!"

Hearing him say so Jim frowned, but his fists relaxed, as he grumpily sat across from him. His arms were crossed, and he glared at the fire for a moment, trying to ease his temper, breathing heavily through flared nostrils.

Oswald wondered how long he'd be able to live, seeing as if he wasn't taming the dragon to which he was married, he always found himself on the brutish end of Jim's rage. Although, Oswald had to give himself some credit; he was turning out to become quite the skilled master of both Gordons.

"She tried to fight you?"

"She didn't 'try'. She _did_. She picked up Butch, lifted him above her head, and _threw_ him into the wall. It would have been impressive if it hadn't been so terrifying," Oswald admitted, rubbing his jaw where Sylvia had hit him last night in an attempt to run after the manservant.

Jim smiled proudly in spite of himself; Oswald noticed.

"Well, I'm glad you can find some humor in this."

"Something like that. She's barely five feet. Butch is almost seven feet tall. It's a shame I wasn't there to see it."

"Be that as it may, I have a few questions about your father, if you don't mind me asking."

"Oswald," sighed Jim. "If it wasn't for Sylvia, you and I would have no reason to talk about my father. In fact, you'd probably find yourself with an identical bruise to match the one on your jaw if I had anything to say about it."

"I understand. She's _our_ common denominator. Even then, you have to admit: we tend to cross paths _without_ her help. However, I digress."

"What's your question, Cobblepot?"

Oswald cleared his throat, repositioned himself in his chair, and said as professionally as possible, "When you and Sylvia were younger, did your father ever openly claim favorites?"

Jim chuckled, rolling his eyes: "What'd she tell you? That I was his favorite?"

"Something to that effect."

"Figures."

" _Weren't_ you, though?"

"It wasn't my choice, but I was." Jim admitted sourly, his lip curling in disgust. "If I had any say in the way I was brought up, I would change that. I didn't do anything different that she could have, but, yes, our dad claimed to love me more."

"Why is that?"

"You mean to ask why did he love me more?"

"Yes."

"He wanted a son."

"Hm."

"Like I said, it wasn't my choice."

"You and Sylvia went to the same school," Oswald assumed, gesturing to him.

"Mm-hmm."

"Same classes, same majors?"

"Yes." Jim returned innocently.

"Do you think your father favored you more because Sylvia was frequently getting into trouble?"

"She wasn't _just_ ditching class," Jim stated, the need to defend his father evident in his voice. "We were only in high school and she was skipping class to rob dime stores."

"You are a year older than her. That would have made you a Sophomore."

"Academics were never my strongest suit. I was pulled back and had to repeat eighth grade." Jim confessed to his chagrin. "Moving _on_ , Sylvia could not have helped that Dad liked me more, but she didn't make it any easier either. With her skipping class, committing petty crimes, getting locked up in juvie—that's not something any parent would approve of."

Oswald nibbled on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, knowing that what Jim said was true. After all, his late mother had a similar reaction of complete shock and devastation when Maroni had poured his own dirty secrets onto the table.

"Did you ever get the sense that your father would abandon her?"

Jim looked at him boldly. In such a way that he felt threatened, and was slowly being backed into a corner. However, he used to be a detective; he could control his emotions…most of the time. But when it concerned his sister, there were many buttons to press, and too many sore spots to poke. At this current time, Jim felt as though Oswald had the stick, prodding him at any angle possible.

"You know what," Jim said curtly. "I think I _will_ take that drink."

"By all means." Oswald encouraged, gesturing to the decanter of scotch and whiskey that sat on the mantle above the fireplace.

Wordlessly, Jim stalked over to it, poured the decanter at least a third of the way in the glass, and then sat back down across from Oswald, who watched him curiously. Jim threw it back, waiting for the alcohol to finish assaulting his nose and throat before he sighed deeply.

He placed the glass on the end table next to the chair.

"Here's the thing," Jim began, looking at Oswald. "If you were anyone else, _anyone_ else, I'd say 'fuck you' and that would be the end of this conversation."

Oswald nodded, having expected that kind of answer anyway. He was legitimately surprised that he had gotten this far interviewing Jim without so much as a 'I'm leaving' comment or something to that effect.

"But," Jim continued. "Even if I don't like it, you're still married to Vee. You still seem to love her, and I know for a fact that she loves the hell out of you…for whatever reason. Seeing that you married to her, you've also married into the family…and all of our dysfunction. So here it is."

Oswald waited patiently. Jim was about to talk, but he shook his head. He grabbed another drink from the decanter, and sat back down.

He said unhappily, "Dad wasn't fair. He made it clear to anyone and everyone, including us, that he loved me more. I was his first born; I was the son. I was more athletic, sporty—I played football in high school. He was the District Attorney, for crying out loud, so he was prouder of me for being in the Army. Sure, I did things that people would have frowned upon, but by the time we were fifteen, Sylvia had been in Juvie at least three times that I can remember. In Dad's eyes, she was a liability, the black sheep, the juvenile delinquent chipping away at his good name."

Oswald said inquisitively, "Was your mother the same way?"

"Our mother was gone by the time I was ten; Vee was nine."

"And your father?"

"He was killed in a car crash."

"When?"

"A short time after I came back from war."

Oswald mulled over the timeline before he asked, "Did your mother pass away?"

"We don't know."

"Did she leave?"

"We don't know," Jim said, shaking his head. He sipped the scotch, saying after, "We have no idea what happened to her. There were some arguments in the past, but I can't remember anything specific. Dad said 'she moved on', but we never saw any obituaries, articles, or anything about her passing. We figured our parents were furious at each other, so they divorced, and our mother abandoned us."

"You believe she left?"

"I don't know _what_ I believe. Frankly, I couldn't care. Mom was Mom. She would come home at odd hours of the night, leave for a few days, but that was her job. She was something of a show girl—in the show business type of deal. Something like what Sylvia does now."

He gestured upstairs where he knew his sister was currently sleeping.

"What about Sylvia? What does _she_ think?"

"I'm not sure. Dead, dying, divorced—Sylvia has a lot of theories about what happened to Mom. But none of them are definite."

"What did your father say?"

"He never did," said Jim mysteriously.

"What do you mean 'he never did'? He had to say _something_ , to explain your mother's disappearance."

"Dad was a lawyer. He could articulate anything to persuade a nine and ten-year-old. Back then, 'she moved on' seemed to make sense."

"Did your mother ever question his favoritism?"

"If she did, we never heard of it." Jim answered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Mom was compassionate, loving; she treated us the same. Mom and Sylvia had that 'mother-daughter' bond. They were both women, and they were both red-headed. I don't know any other bonds that they could have had, if any. And it didn't seem like Sylvia could care less about either of our parents. Back then, the only people I'd ever heard her claim to love— _truly_ love—were herself, and me."

Jim glanced at Oswald, who merely watched him with contemplation.

"Our family—like any family—had its own drama, its own dysfunction."

Oswald leaned back in his seat, looking at the fireplace with some thought then said pointedly, "Sylvia mentioned that you act like your father, and she acts like her mother." He looked at Jim: "Would you say that is accurate?"

"Dad said Sylvia reminded him a lot of Mom when our mother was younger." Jim returned. "I remember our mother playing jokes on Dad and our Uncle Frank, but they were nothing more than pranks."

Jim poured himself another scotch, drank it fully to the bottom. He grimaced as it burned his throat. The scotch was settling him down; he could feel the alcohol warming his body, loosening not just in mind but his tongue too. Soon he was talking, just to talk.

"Dad wasn't fond of Sylvia getting into trouble, particularly with the police. Even after I went to war, I was getting calls about how she robbed this bank, robbed that bank—the list goes on. Mom was….could have been more understanding if she had been around. By the time Sylvia was getting in trouble, she'd already gone. From the stories Dad told us, she had a dark side of her own. The way he made it sound, he saved her from that path."

Oswald sighed, and rubbed his temples, as though he was still trying to find a certain answer. Jim noticed.

"Why are you asking all of these questions all of a sudden? Hasn't she talked to you about any of this?"

"I only know what she tells me." Oswald answered indifferently. "And that's not much of anything."

"What _has_ she told you? I feel like I've answered a lot of questions. I'd like a little information myself."

"She feels abandoned."

"Is that what she's told you?"

"No. It's what I've gathered." Oswald returned seriously. "Her reaction to Mr. Bell's departure was a little more than what I was prepared to handle. I'll stipulate to that. However, this isn't the first time she has had such an outlandish reaction. At the most, he was her mentor and a trainer. I hadn't any idea that she saw him as a father figure. Her combative behavior worried me."

"So, you called me. You think her reaction had something to do with a childhood thing?"

"I think so. She tells me how your father loved you the most, and that she hardly received his approval. She talks even less about her mother."

Jim chuckled, "You've been with her long enough to know how she is."

"I have to wonder why though."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Oswald said coolly, "If she had to throw a tantrum or get into trouble in order to receive any attention, I imagine this is the reason she behaves as such, especially when someone threatens to leave her."

"That's ridiculous. She's never thrown a fit when a boyfriend threatened to leave her. She kicked them to the curb—and if they did leave, she was more than happy to see them go. Frankly, so was I!"

"Her father never loved her and her mother abandoned the two of you—that's what Sylvia has led me to believe. Is she wrong?"

Jim shrugged, saying, "I won't deny it. But I'm not confirming it either. I told you. Dad _wasn't_ fair. Anything Sylvia wanted, he either downplayed, criticized, or ignored completely. The only time he ever gave her any sort of praise was if she did something that he considered heroic or if she went out of her way to do something Dad wanted. Often times, it was neither of those things."

Oswald sighed, looking up at the ceiling. While he was getting the answers he needed, they weren't really the ones he wanted to hear.

Sylvia had Daddy issues. There wasn't any doubt about that, but he hadn't any idea how deeply rooted her issues had started.

"Do you have any idea where your mother might have gone? Knowing what you know about her….?"

Jim tilted his head to the side and said curiously, "Why are you asking?"

"Call it 'curiosity'."

"What are you trying to do?" He asked suspiciously, slowly getting to his feet. "You're planning something. Aren't you?"

"It's not really any of your business what I'm—"

Jim didn't waste time as he brought his hands down on Oswald, grabbed him by the shoulders, and jerkily pulled him from his seat so he could shove Oswald against the nearest wall as hard as possible. Oswald grunted with the impact; Jim bared his teeth, glaring at him.

"What the hell are you planning—"

"—Jim—"

"—Some kind of double-dealing—" He growled, and he punched Oswald right in the face, and then he let him go so Oswald slumped against the wall.

Before Jim could hit him again, Oswald said quickly, "I'm trying to find her mother!"

Jim's temper suddenly extinguished, and he looked down at him, taken aback.

"Why?" He demanded.

Oswald glared at him.

"Since you want to know so _badly, i_ t's part of my anniversary gift."

He stood up, straightening his suit resentfully.

"And this is your gift to her? What makes you think this will cheer her up!"

"She's distraught _now_." Oswald reminded irritably. "But I believe that by the time our anniversary arrives, she will be in much higher spirits."

"Our mother may very well be dead. Why put Sylvia through more grief than what she's already going through?"

Oswald stepped a pace towards Jim, who watched him like a snarling lion.

"Sylvia thinks she was abandoned. It's bad enough one parent has proven that he didn't love her enough to accept her. Why must she live the rest of her life believing that the other felt the same way, if not indifferent? Judging from what you've told me, I'm fairly certain that Mrs. Gordon _is_ deceased, but just knowing what happened to her will give Sylvia some closure, therefore, peace of mind. And that's a rare gift, seeing as she doesn't get much of that being around _either_ of us!"

Jim frowned. Not because he disagreed, but because he had never heard more righteous words in a long time. And they came from a criminal, no less!

He looked at the ceiling, knowing that's where Sylvia was currently sleeping off her meds. Oswald watched him, waiting. Jim looked at him; when he did, he said reluctantly, "Fine. I'll go to the GCPD tomorrow, see if I can't find anything."

"If you want to make it a business proposition, I'll be more than happy to compensate, seeing as you're a bounty hunter and all."

""I'm not doing this for you." Jim said resentfully. "Give me what you and your goons have come up with so far. I'll be taking care of the rest."

**Chapter 12: A Learning Experience**

In the week that passed, Jim found that if he really wanted to find someone, he would succeed no matter what. Whether that meant having to go to the most prestigious glamour fests to find out that Diana Gordon had been a successful movie star, or to the lowest of lowly neighborhoods to find out that she had sunk all the way to bottom-zero by the time everything was said and done.

Jim sat in a dingy bar, taking up a whole booth with newspaper articles, clippings, data sheets, finances—even medical reports. It was amazing what a son could acquire when he gave the receptionists and medical technicians a story about how his mother abandoned him at a young age and how he just wanted to be reconnected with her one last time before….well…according to the smallest tidbit in a newspaper, the 'before' had already happened.

For a starlet who had been famous enough to be applauded and commended highly by anyone in the upper middle-class region, Diana Gordon's good name had been robbed of all class as the singer/show-woman had drank herself under the table, was caught up in drugs, and the life of crime had overwhelmed her state of mind so much that she'd taken her own life. The only thing she had left behind was a diary, which Jim was reading with a grim expression that steadily became grimmer as he turned each page.

He'd found out through the articles that his mother had died when he was twelve, only two years after she'd abandoned them. In the diary, he read pages and _pages_ where Diana had written how greatly she'd despised getting 'hitched up' to their father, and had the children she'd never wanted nor cared for. According to her, it had ruined any chance of her ever making it into the 'picture shows' (movies) because the C-Section scars had bunked her out of any movie slots, and she never felt as confident in her appearance again. In the diary, Diana wrote how happy she was now that she'd left the 'little shits' with their father, and even though she liked 'the girl' a little more because she had taken after her, Diana still couldn't have stood another minute with their 'tyrannical' father.

The passages went on, and on. Jim hadn't even gotten through half of the diary before he placed it under the pile of newspaper clippings, including the obituary, and asked the bartender if he could have another drink and, yes, _please_ leave the bottle.

He pulled out his cellular phone from the inner pocket of his leather jacket, dialed a number from memory and then waited.

"Oswald," Jim greeted dryly when the receiver had picked up.

"Jim." The voice on the other side sounded so pleasant. "It's nice to hear from you again."

"Are you busy?"

Even though Jim could hear the distorted voices in the background that no doubt belonged to a bunch of men arguing about price deductions, Oswald said calmly, "No."

"This is about what we discussed before."

"Ah…Give me a moment." Oswald returned politely.

There was a short pause, and Jim noticed that the voices in the background started fading, then there was nothing; Oswald had enclosed himself in a quieter location, and at this, Jim was surprised that he felt a little grateful.

"What did you find?"

He glanced at the diary: "It doesn't look good."

"Meaning?"

"Mom died when we were twelve."

"I'm sorry; that's unfortunate."

"From what I've read in her diary," Jim said uneasily, "that _is_ the good news. I'll bring over what I have."

"Tonight."

"What?"

"We'll meet tonight," Oswald declared, "once Sylvia goes to sleep."

"That would be best. I don't want her overhearing."

"I figured as much."

They hung up without saying good-bye. This was becoming all too customary, even for Jim's taste.

Sylvia sat in her office at _Lean on Vee's_ , primarily going over budget rates. The club wasn't exactly hemorrhaging money, but there was plenty still to teach young Delilah when it concerned budgeting for more than just fancy holiday decorations, and the like. After she had the time to go over this month's bills, Sylvia called for Delilah, who came into the office, appearing more nervous than what was deemed necessary.

"Please close the door." Sylvia said without looking up from the finance book. She flipped a page as Delilah did as she was told, and she stood in front of her expectantly.

Sylvia looked up at her when the woman remained standing.

"Well, have a seat." She chuckled, gesturing to the chair in front of her. "Don't look so scared, Dee. You look like I'm about to throw a book at you for Christ's sake. Here…." She placed her martini in front of Delilah. "Have a drink, it'll calm your nerves."

"Sylvia..."

"We've talked about this." She warned.

Delilah smiled weakly and corrected herself, "…Liv."

"Before we begin, this is just a learning experience, okay? It's nothing you did wrong. You are _not_ in trouble."

"I'm guessing if I was, I wouldn't get to drink this."

Sylvia looked at her once more, noticing her odd behavior. It wasn't like Delilah to walk on egg shells around her, never the less, anyone. After a moment of watching her, Sylvia sighed in resignation, stacked the bills and papers together and folded her hands on the table.

"What's up?" She asked casually.

Delilah's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and she quickly placed the martini back on the desk. Unnerved, she asked, "What do you mean 'what's up'?"

"I mean it like it sounds. You're acting strange."

"'Strange'?"

"Yes. In the time that I have known you, you've _never_ been nervous. Ever. Not even when these assholes are destroying my furniture or shooting bullets at one another." Sylvia stated calmly, sitting back in her chair. "So, tell me. What's going on?"

Delilah chuckled, "It's nothing, really."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Well, it has to be _something_. You're shaking like a leaf in the fall." Sylvia pointed out. "Is it a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Parents? I can understand if parents are causing you some stress; believe me. I'm all too familiar with that department. Is it a sibling rivalry—Come on, young lady, tell me: what's wrong?"

Delilah started giggling halfway through Sylvia's rant-slash-interrogation and the casualness of her voice. That had been Sylvia's point as she smiled, too, when Delilah finally cracked under the lack of tension. The young Goth took in a long breath and then exhaled, gathering her thoughts.

"Well, my boyfriend and I…we've been trying to have a baby."

"And….?"

"Well, I think I might be…you know…but I don't know."

"Have you taken a pee test?" Sylvia asked practically.

"We've done one, but…I think it's wrong."

"What does it say?"

"That I'm pregnant."

"Well, there you go!" Sylvia returned happily, gesturing to her. "Happy day!"

"But they're wrong."

"The test or…?"

"The test. I can't be pregnant."

"Why is that?"

"We use condoms."

"You're trying to have a baby, but you're using condoms?"

"Well, we _stopped_ using condoms, only yesterday. I can't be pregnant now—we've been using condoms up until this point."

Sylvia looked at her for one serious minute before she burst out laughing. Delilah jumped; it'd been a while since she'd heard Sylvia laugh, genuinely. The sound was perky, bubbly, and Delilah couldn't help smile when she saw Sylvia put her head on the table, trying to sober up. When she did, Sylvia straightened in her chair, smiling at her.

"Dee. _Nothing_ is 100% effective. Condoms, IUDs, the sponge—none of it. They're, what, 99% effective, but you still have to account for that 1%. Personally, I've used an IUD for the past five years, and that's still not 100% guaranteed."

"So…I could be?"

"You _could_ be." She handed her the landline phone, adding, "Call the Women's Health clinic in Gotham General. Set up an appointment, get looked at. If anyone can tell you whether you're pregnant or not, it'll be them. The gynecologists—not the general health nuts."

"I can't."

"What do you mean 'you can't'?"

"The last time I went, it was for a pap and it didn't go like it should have."

"I'm not understanding you."

Delilah shifted in her chair uncomfortably, saying, "It's like…it's hard to explain."

"Would I be able to convince you to go if I made an appointment myself?"

"That might help…yeah."

Sylvia called Gotham General, and they transferred her to Women's Health. A same-day appointment was set up so that both she and Delilah could be seen. Sylvia offered to go first and have Delilah in there with her, so the latter could see that nothing would be painful. When the appointment was booked, Delilah watched Sylvia expectantly.

"When?"

"Today," Sylvia answered. "Actually, in a couple of hours, so get your shit together and meet me at the front door in twenty minutes."

Delilah raised her eyebrows incredulously.

"What? It's amazing what you get when you're polite to customer service. Really, the only one thing of value I ever learned from Fish Mooney."

"You're actually going to get one with me?"

"Well, I'd say I'm overdue for one anyway. What better time than the present!"

Delilah and Sylvia then headed to the front. Delilah went ahead to get in the car while Sylvia watched her protectively until the car door closed. She turned to Dagger and Chilly who were waiting; Sylvia said softly, "I'll be gone a couple of hours."

"You still want us to train that Demetri kid?" Dagger asked wryly.

" _Yes_. What makes you think I _don't_ want you to train him? He's a smart kid; he'll be fine."

"Roger. Whatever you want, Lark."

Sylvia smiled beautifully at the both of her guards and then she hopped into the car with Delilah, who sat in the passenger seat, nervously fidgeting with her hands. As they sped off to Gotham General, the radio was cranked up and all you could hear from the Mustang was Cyndi Lauper's hit, 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun'.

The business meeting had finished prior to Jim's call. When the Heads of the Families had driven off, Oswald was mildly grateful for the quiet that came afterwards. In the silence, he sat in the living room, uncertain as to what he would tell Sylvia when the time came. Really, it depended on the material Jim had found.

Oswald had expected this much to come from his investigation. It was Gotham, after all. Nothing good ever came from the city…then again, he had Sylvia, didn't he? While she wasn't inherently pure of heart and innocent as his mother had been, Oswald could be happy that Sylvia wasn't.

They'd been through a lot together, that much was true.

And tonight, it was their anniversary.

He'd hardly expected any good news to come from searching for Diana Gordon. A starlet disappearing off the face of the earth without so much as a blip on anyone's radar? There was no way that had ended blissfully. Oswald had expected it; so, he'd already created a fail-safe, just in case.

Sylvia was still out, running her club. In her absence, Oswald had tasked Olga with a few instructions that would make their bedroom something out of a romance novel: rose petals on the carpet and bed covers, candles on the dresser, and end tables ready to be set alight. It wasn't the plan that Oswald had in mind, in fact, it was so generic and universal that it made him want to pitch the entire idea into an exploding supernova.

There wasn't enough to be done to express his love for Sylvia. And there never would be, it seemed.

And this news that Jim would bring. How would Oswald tell her? How _could_ he?

The knock on the door had been earlier than he had expected. Oswald frowned, glancing at the time; it wasn't even three in the afternoon, and Jim was already here? Well, Oswald considered thoughtfully, Sylvia wouldn't be home until well past eight; she normally didn't leave the club until the last patron had left and after she'd made sure all of her staff was gone for the day.

Gabe was right: ' _Mother Hen to us all_ '.

He answered the door, saw that it was Jim, and he reluctantly stepped aside so as to let the former detective into his mansion.

Jim carried a black messenger bag, no doubt it contained everything he'd found on his mother. Oswald watched him through leery eyes. Hostility was unnecessary, but hadn't they agreed to a time of the day?

Apparently not where Jim was concerned.

Oswald watched him sit in the living room. He joined him.

"The time we agreed upon wasn't sufficient?" Oswald asked coolly.

Jim ignored him and said unhappily, "Vee isn't here, is she?"

"She's out."

"I figured as much. I have a few errands to run before the day is out…." He explained gruffly, placing the messenger bag on the floor. Almost irritably, he gestured to the other arm chair and Oswald, not being one to anger the detective, sat across from him.

"More of Strange's Monsters to pursue, no doubt."

"More than I can count."

"More to catch."

"And bring them in. The city needs protecting."

"You're a police officer in all, but name. Except instead of catching criminals, you're catching monsters."

Jim glanced at him as though someone had told him the very same thing. Perhaps it had been such a regular observation made known to him that he was almost surprised that Oswald would have made the same notion. Spoken so casually, too.

Not wanting to confirm it with a comment, Jim handed over the messenger bag. Oswald took it, placed it in his lap, and perused the contents with ease. When he found the diary, he met Jim's eyes with mirrored discomfort.

"If you were like your father and Sylvia was like her mother, I doubt I want to read what is written in here."

"It's not flattering," Jim admitted as he leaned back in the chair stiffly.

"I should say not."

Taking his warning under advisement, Oswald turned the pages until he was in middle of the diary. Jim waited for clear indication that he was right; Oswald's eyes flickered over the pages, then he looked up.

"She had a colorful vocabulary," He noted with a subtle smile. "I guess I know where Sylvia gets hers."

"You're telling me." Jim agreed, nodding. He glanced at the scotch decanter on the mantle piece and said with a surprisingly polite tone, "Do you mind….?"

Oswald made an encouraging motion and Jim quietly thanked him, getting up from his seat to pour the decanter a third of the way into the glass, then sat back down.

"Actually…." Oswald muttered as he flipped another page through the diary. "I might have one too."

He began to make himself a drink but before he could do so, Jim was already pouring a second glass as he said, "I'll do the honors."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

And for a second, it was as though their familial bond—even if only by marriage—nearly seemed _normal_. Oswald, the husband; Jim, the brother…brothers-in-law partaking a drink together without harsh words or threats of any kind. Even if it took place while reading the abominable words that Jim and Sylvia's late mother had written prior to completing suicide in her own dingy apartment.

Jim handed a glass, half-full, to Oswald, who took it thankfully.

"She doesn't leave much to the imagination, does she."

"She did _not_ want to be married to your father for too long," Oswald agreed, and he added, "for the past 50 pages, she's made that _very_ transparent."

"We never noticed."

"Never noticed what…." Oswald said distractedly.

"Their rocky marriage."

Oswald looked up at Jim, who rested an ankle over his knee as his thumb smoothed over the crystal cut glassware. The latter seemed to speak to him, but it wasn't made clear whether or not he was knowingly speaking his thoughts aloud. Oswald closed the diary, and placed it on the arm of his chair.

"Most children are blind to it, I think." He said softly. "Whether they just don't see it, choose not to believe it, or otherwise."

"It's like this city."

"Pardon?"

Jim met his gaze, saying, "Our father kept us…well, _me…_ sheltered from Gotham's terrors. Sylvia knew what the city was like before I ever did. Her eyes were open to the truth. I romanticized what Gotham was, or rather, what it wasn't. It took me years to see what Sylvia was trying to tell me."

"Yes. She's quite perceptive."

"Not just that. She told me that the world isn't just black and white. 'It's gray, blue, purple, and lots and lots of red', she said."

"As perceptive as she is, I wonder if she knew anything about this." Oswald uttered, picking up the diary and sifting through its pages pointedly. "Your mother's resentment for marriage, having children."

"If she saw it, she said nothing to me. And if she knew it, she _wouldn't_ have said anything. She wanted to protect me just like Dad."

"Mother Hen to us all." Oswald muttered, recalling what Gabe had said on the night Mr. Bell had departed.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing."

"I'm sure it is 'nothing'. What'd you say?"

Oswald cleared his throat, this time feeling a little embarrassed. He said lightly, "One of my men—or rather, _many_ of them—refer to Sylvia as a 'Mother Hen'. She's fairly protective over all of them, the servants, her staff..."

"… _You_." Jim muttered.

It was Oswald's turn to look at Jim as though he might have misspoken: "I'm sorry?"

"She's protective of _you_." Jim repeated, moving the hand that held his scotch towards Oswald as he lowered his ankle to the floor so he could sit upright and lean forward. "You have _no_ idea how protective. It's actually really aggravating."

"It's not one-sided, I assure you."

"I bet."

There was a quiet moment in which the fire's soft crackling embers were the only thing heard in the entire mansion. Jim took a long drink and he gestured towards the messenger bag.

"With the diary, there are articles." He said hoarsely. "Articles about how Mom was famously known for singing arias, the usual. She was in show business from the time we were toddlers, up until the time she and our father were divorced. All of it was kept quiet, at least from us."

Oswald looked through the articles in the bag, noticing that what Jim said was true. Diana Gordon was not quite a legend, but she'd been renowned for some time before her demise, which was even less documented.

"Her diary entries and the newspaper articles link up," Jim stated as though he would save Oswald the time and energy of trying to decipher that for himself. "The celebrity headlines stopped around the time I was eleven—Vee, ten."

"Why is that?"

"She started getting more into _your_ line of work than in show business," Jim responded, disgruntled. "More arrests, more drug busts—her criminal life took over, took everything she had from her, including her house and car, until she had nothing at all. In the diary, she calls it 'bank- _rat_ -cy'."

Oswald quirked an eyebrow at him curiously.

Jim explained, "She thinks someone was out to get her. Knowledge of her abandoning us got out to the press, leaked through every single newspaper company and network, and that brought down her reputation."

"As vicious as the media can be, I'm surprised that they would have such a passionate response to a woman who would leave her children behind. As unfortunate as it seems, _having_ children didn't ruin her life," Oswald pointed out. " _Leaving_ them did."

"It appears so. But that's not what her diary would have you believe."

"It appears Sylvia dodged a bullet."

"Yeah, but none of this is _good_ either." Jim deliberated, getting to his feet. "It just confirms what she suspects; our mother abandoned us. So now, she has a mother who never wanted her—us—and a father who she believes never loved her."

Oswald looked up at him from his seat, saying, "So what are you proposing?"

"I'd rather Vee not find out about any of this."

"Any of it?"

"Our meeting, the investigation, what we found, the diary—any of it. It would destroy her."

"You expect me to hide the truth from her?" Oswald questioned, standing up as well.

"Well, you're pretty good at it anyway: keeping secrets, hiding truths, lying, typical criminal background," Jim said with a sarcastic grin. "I figure this is your bread and butter. Isn't it, Oswald?"

"I'm a criminal, but I'm an honest criminal."

"Yeah. 'Honest'."

"If you think—"

"She doesn't learn about _any_ of this," Jim warned, pointing to the messenger bag. "This _would_ destroy her."

"If we keep this from her and she finds out from someone else that we did—"

" _Then so be it_! You know what she's capable of, you know how she reacted when a _butler_ left. Think of the consequences, think of what will happen when she finds out that her own mother never wanted her!"

"Fine!" Oswald resigned unhappily. "You have a point."

"Good. I'm glad we can agree on something." Jim mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I have a few things to take care of before the night is out. Do you care to…." He waved his hand at the messenger bag, the diary, and the newspaper articles.

"I'll take care of it."

"Thanks." Jim mumbled. He drank the last of the scotch, adding, "And thanks for the drink."

Oswald watched him for a moment. He looked as though he might say something, but after further thought, he reckoned he'd stay humble and let the former detective leave.

Oswald stared at the fireplace. His eyes were on the fire, but his mind was elsewhere. Occasionally, he glanced at the clock that sat on top of the mantle piece. It read 8:05 P.M. Soon, Sylvia would be coming home, if not already walking up to the front door. And still, he hadn't summoned the energy or the will to put the messenger bag or the diary away.

He never intended to destroy the evidence. He never intended to hide the truth from her. As such, in his right pocket of his trousers was a tranquilizer dart with enough sedatives to knock out an elephant. He figured if Sylvia didn't like the news, he could put the dart in her neck and she'd go right to sleep—if he even found the opportunity to do so.

The alternative was obviously much more appealing, not to mention safer. Oswald knew himself by now. What Jim said was true; he could hide many truths. How was this any different? How, indeed.

The sound of the door creaking open jolted his thoughts to the present, to the mansion; he heard the soft footsteps of Sylvia's padded bare feet. He glanced up to see her walking into the living room, appearing tired, but otherwise, content, as well as holding her heels in one hand. When she saw that he was still up, Sylvia's head slightly tilted to the side with curiosity.

"Ozzie."

She said his name with such a soft timbre, it made the hairs on his neck stand on end. A light electric impulse teased his fingers and tickled a larger digit of his. Just hearing his name leave her lips—it never got old.

"I didn't think you'd be up," Sylvia said, sitting across from him. She leaned forward, and gave him a kiss.

He returned it.

"I have some news." Oswald said calmly, although his heart was beating so hard, it threatened to beat right out of his chest.

"What is it?"

He pushed the messenger bag towards her feet with his cane, a dark cloud seemingly looming overhead. He wouldn't admit to anyone that sometimes Sylvia scared the ever-loving shit out of him. During moments like this, he wished to God that she didn't. Even now, he could feel his body shivering out of nerves—the idea of lying to her was becoming more appealing.

"I started an investigation," He informed with forced calm. "I had hoped to give you some closure regarding your mother's disappearance. It's not as comforting as I hoped it would be."

"My mother? I haven't really thought of her…" She pulled the diary out of the messenger bag, and looked at Oswald inquisitively. "What's this?"

"I'm certain you know what it is."

"A diary. My _mother's_ diary?"

"Sylvia…."

"Where did you get this?"

"Like I said," Oswald said with a small encouraging smile. "I had someone running an investigation..."

Sylvia held up a hand and Oswald immediately silenced. It wasn't like him to do so, but he figured under these conditions, it was probably best. He worriedly nibbled on the inside of his cheek; a part of him was baiting his hand to reach for that tranquilizer dart already as he watched her.

Her eyes grew watery, cloudy. Still, she kept flipping the pages, reading. She was halfway through before she sniffled, putting the book down on her lap. Oswald watched her carefully, waiting for that ticking bomb explosion, waiting for—well, waiting for _any_ reaction.

"So…Mom didn't want me. Either of us."

"Yes, it appears that way." Oswald consoled.

"And these?"

Sylvia ran her hands through the newspaper articles.

"Pigeon…."

"How did she die?"

"Suicide."

Sylvia's sad chuckle made Oswald's heart dip into his stomach.

"Well, I suppose she would have rather died than ever try to…." She began, but her voice trailed off.

"Honestly, Pet…You're taking this a lot better than I thought you would." Oswald uttered uncertainly.

"I'm surprised you didn't choose to hide this from me, to tell me a happy ending, instead."

"I admit that it has crossed my mind. I've lied to my mother, Falcone, and, really, everyone in between." He said guiltily. "And I'd say I'm very good at it. I _can_ lie to you."

"Really."

"Yes. It's not that I can't. I just won't. My mother always said that a truth with a tear is better than a lie with a smile. I had hoped to give you good news…I won't deny that I thought about throwing all of this in the fire, and telling you a happier ending. As perceptive as you are, as brilliant as your mind is, I knew eventually you'd find out—somehow, someway—I would rather you find out from me than from someone else."

"That's sweet." Sylvia said, smiling endearingly. "As for this" (She put the diary on the floor) "I call it a 'learning experience'."

"A 'learning' experience? What do you mean by that?"

"Well, I know, now, what kind of mother she was. This diary, these newspaper clippings—She has shown me just what type of mother I neither wanted nor wish to become." Sylvia said softly. "However, in doing that, she's also shown me what type of mother I want to be…when we have _our_ child."

"Well, I suppose that's…." Oswald began, but when he registered her words, he looked at her, confused.

Sylvia stood, walked over to him, took Oswald's hand in hers, and placed his palm over her stomach.

She kissed his cheek and whispered, "Happy Anniversary, Ozzie. You're going to be a father."

***Author's Note: 2nd part is up. :) 


	8. Somewhere Only We Know (Part 2 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the fifth installment of this story :)  
> Highlights: Sylvia and Alfred Pennyworth team up to save Jim, Bruce, and Lucius Fox from Hugo Strange; Sylvia earns a moniker for her reputation in the streets as well as a performer; Sylvia tries to navigate Barbara Kean's bold advances as well as her own attraction to her; Jim and Sylvia's mother's disappearance is explained; Ivy Pepper is a spy; Demetri's allegiance is revealed and he makes an effort to endear himself to Oswald and Sylvia; Oswald enlists help from an old friend as he pursues his mayoral campaign; and Sylvia and Oswald prepare to become parents. XD  
> As before, trigger warnings and the like are placed at the beginning of applicable chapters.

**Chapter Thirteen: Happy Anniversary**

" _Well, I suppose that's…." Oswald began, but when he registered her words, he looked at her, confused._

_Sylvia stood, walked over to him, took Oswald's hand in hers, and placed his palm over her stomach._

_She kissed his cheek and whispered, "Happy Anniversary, Ozzie. You're going to be a father."_

A combination of expressions and emotions came over Oswald's face as he tried to digest the news given to him.

"I'm going to be a dad?" Oswald said incredulously.

He stood, and placed his hands on her belly, as though he was trying to make sure it was _her_ to whom she was referring to as being pregnant and no one else.

"Yes! Yes, you are!"

An emotional man as Sylvia knew him to be, she let out a small " _oh_!" when Oswald suddenly took her in his arms and hugged her tightly. She patted his back, smiling inwardly when she heard him whisper to himself, "I'm going to be a father…!"

With the excitement of the moment assuaged, Sylvia sat across from him, steadily but sternly ripping pages out of the diary and throwing each crumpled piece into the fire, watching the flame devour it until there weren't even the ashy remnants left. She sat on the floor in her night slip, wearing a sleek baby blue robe; her legs were bent to the side like a lady. In the light of the fireplace, her eyes were as bright as blue ice crystals, and Oswald watched her in awe.

"Are you sure you don't want to just throw the whole book in?" He asked, gesturing to the diary with a little distaste. "Why torture yourself, dear?"

"I call it 'closure'." She said calmly, peering at him under heavily lidded eyes. Her soft remark quelled the rest of his words and once she'd ripped all of the pages out of the book, she threw the cover in the flames, saving it for last. It burned the brightest.

Sylvia crawled the rest of the way over to him, parting his legs so she could kneel in between them. Oswald looked down at her, but his gaze no less revealed how much he thought the world of her.

"Sit up here." He requested, his palms patting his lap.

She did as he asked. He lifted her legs up so they dangled over one of the arms of the chair. One of her hands rested on the head of it, just behind his neck; the other loosened his tie and relaxed the collar of his shirt.

"How did you find out?" He asked curiously, "about the baby?"

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you."

"Humor me."

"Alright, then. What I tell you stays strictly between us, though."

Oswald held up a hand and said humorously, "Promise."

"I'm _serious._ If Delilah hears that I've told you, she will freak out."

"In any case she does, I'm certain my staff and I will be able to handle it. No temper is greater than yours."

As though flattered, Sylvia smirked and she shoved him a little; a playful move that Oswald smiled at.

"Well," She continued, "Delilah wanted to make an appointment with the gynecologist to make sure she was pregnant. She was afraid to go, so I made an appointment with her. Personally, I thought it was going to be quite uneventful but, obviously, that wasn't the case. I went first, got my check up, typical female stuff, yada, yada. I even had my IUD checked, and I took a pregnancy test, just to show her that all was well."

Oswald looked at her quizzically.

Sylvia smiled, saying, "Not _only_ did the doctor find out that I was pregnant, but also, my birth control has been expired for a couple of months. He said—"

"—He?"

Sylvia chuckled at how startled Oswald appeared to find out that the gynecologist was a man.

"Yes, baby. ' _He_ '. Men _do_ become gynecologists."

"Why do I find that odd?"

"I don't know. It's actually very common. Don't think too much on it. The doctor was very professional. No hanky-panky, you know."

"Were you awake the entire time?"

"They didn't sedate me for something as simple as this."

Oswald shuddered. It made Sylvia rediscover just how naive Oswald could be sometimes. All-knowing when it came to Falcone's domain or ruling the empire, all things dirty, underhanded, double-dealing and dangerous, but when it came to babies, gynecology, and females: his knowledge was as expansive as his mother had allowed, and that wasn't very much to boot.

Sylvia took Oswald's hands in hers.

"While there, I was told a few things too." She added. "First and foremost, I have to stop smoking…and drinking. So, bear with me if I seem a little testy. Second: as far as timelines go, I'm 2 weeks pregnant. That gives us plenty of time to start looking into things like baby clothes, shoes, diapers—that sort of thing. And judging from what the doctor said about my cervix, it should become nice, soft, and spongy by the time we get to the point of labor."

"Dare I ask what that—"

"The odds of a miscarriage are fairly low, and the baby should slip out just fine," Sylvia answered him, and Oswald looked relieved by that. "I could continue gloating about my cervix, but I think after a point, I'd only make you uncomfortable, no matter how many times you've come close to hitting it. Not that I'm complaining."

Oswald blushed a deep shade of red. Often times, until these moments, he didn't recognize just how forthright and frank she could become.

"Now that I have you all vulnerable and exposed," She said softly, kissing his cheek. "I want to know something. And I want you to be honest, and tell me the truth."

"Anything."

"Who ran the investigation?"

Oswald's blushing red returned to its normal complexion as he said, "That's irrelevant, don't you think?"

"I'm curious."

"Pigeon…"

"Who _was_ it?"

Oswald lowered his head in defeat and he sighed, "Jim."

"My brother Jim?"

"Yes."

"Fascinating." Sylvia mused, although her smile had faltered slightly. "Let me guess. He didn't want you to tell me about what happened with our mother."

"You're right."

Sylvia's eyebrows lifted a centimeter in surprise as she said, "You don't even want to try to cover for him?"

"Honestly, my dear. Lying to you would really impede on all the progress I've made thus far."

"'Progress'?"

"Check upstairs."

"There's not going to be some weird masked vigilante waiting up there to interrogate me, is there?" Sylvia said suspiciously. "I mean, I'm all for romantic surprises but that's going a _little_ too far."

Oswald patted her shoulder as though to encourage her further. Sylvia stood up and then walked up the stairs, to the bedroom. She smiled from ear to ear when she saw the rose petals on the carpet, how they trailed to the bed; they covered the comforters. The scent of the ocean and vanilla spritzed in the room; the candles on the dresser and end tables, lit.

As she stood within the room, looking around, Oswald remained under the door frame, watching her.

It was the expression he'd waited to see, and although he'd hoped for a grander outcome, he was no less satisfied by the way she looked at him. So tenderly. So beautiful.

Sylvia made a point to sit heavily on the mattress, giggling as she watched the comforter poof up and the petals fell to the carpet, disturbed but unharmed. She started making 'petal' angels, moving her arms and legs as she lied on the bed on her back. One petal floated up and rested on her nose. Sylvia's eyes crossed to see it, then she blew; it hovered up and then flitted down to her shoulder.

She sat up, and wiggled her fingers for Oswald to join her. He sat on the edge of the bed, only for her to grab his shoulders and lift him up and nearly drag him into the middle of the mattress. His head laid in her lap, and Sylvia caressed his face between her hands, as she looked at him, upside-down in his viewpoint.

"You're such a hopeless romantic, aren't you?" Sylvia cooed.

"I have not changed much then, have I?"

"Not in the slightest."

Sylvia placed a petal on the bridge of his nose. Oswald blew and it settled on her leg.

"You're not angry, are you? That I sought your brother out to investigate your mother's disappearance?"

"I'm not angry. No. In fact, I don't think there might have been a better person to do the job. He's become something of a bounty hunter."

"I've noticed."

"Strange's monsters are all over the place," Sylvia uttered, biting her bottom lip thoughtfully. "You'd think the mayor, or the GCPD, would have found a way to track them all down, put them all to rest."

"Do you _really_ want to know what I think?"

"I _know_ what you think of the mayor, Oswald."

He chuckled, "You think less of Aubrey James than I do."

"I still see him as a man with his head in the box. Just because the box is gone, it doesn't change my perspective. He's as irresponsible and lackadaisical as any political official."

"Captain Barnes is back on duty."

"Yes, a fat lot of good _he's_ done." Sylvia responded, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "He stands on the balcony, barking orders. Meanwhile, his soldiers are too scared to act, and the only person whose done _anything_ about the monsters is a man who isn't even on the fucking Force. How _brave_. How _noble_."

"In his defense, he's recently acquired a disability."

"Mm. He limps with a cane. You and him have that same disadvantage and yet you've done a hundred more things than he has. Right along with cowardice, I should add 'laziness' to the captain's fucking career letter."

"Easy, Pet."

Sylvia smirked at him, saying, "I'm surprised you've not pointed any of this out to the media."

"I figured I'd give them time."

"It's been six months. In that time frame, what have they done?"

"I feel like you've given this speech already."

"I mentioned something like this to my brother. You can see how well it got through to _him_."

"I'm a little surprised you've not talked about any of this _to_ the media."

"News reporters leave a bad aftertaste in my mouth. An oily residue. I like talking to thugs and people who like cracking skulls a lot more than people with flashing cameras. Besides, _you're_ my charismatic husband."

Saying so, she caressed his face with her hands, her thumbs softly stroking his cheeks. Oswald turned his head ever so slightly so he nuzzled the palm of her left hand. He couldn't deny how much he loved how attentive and affectionate she was to him.

Oswald nibbled on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, and spoke his thoughts aloud: "Maybe I _should_ get the media involved?"

"Go for it."

Taken aback by her immediate response, Oswald asked, "You approve?"

"Jim's not part of the GCPD anymore. If you want to antagonize the police, you're more than welcome to. I feel like they deserve it in a way." Sylvia responded, shrugging her shoulders. "They've relied so heavily on Jim, he gets five grand for bringing in _one_ of them. He's no longer burdened with the task of cleaning up Gotham. So, really…who do the people have looking after them? The _Mayor?_ The _police_? Hardly."

Oswald sat up, dusting the petals off him that she'd been languidly putting on his shoulders and face as they spoke.

"Besides," Sylvia purred, catching his attention. "Why would I stop you? I've never stopped you from bothering the police before. I think it'll be kinda fun, you know: put a little spice into the mix, make some noise. And since when did you ever need _my_ approval? Normally, it's been the other way around."

She rested her back against the headboard, and cleverly smirked at him.

Oswald watched her, unable to stop himself, really. Sylvia's hands slipped between her legs, and she slid her panties down her knees as slowly and easily as possible.

"Before you go and ruffle a few feathers, Ozzie…maybe we should make a little noise of our own. It _is_ our anniversary." Sylvia said coyly, wrinkling her nose playfully at him.

Well, he'd never turned her down before. Why would he start now?

Oswald only left the bed long enough to close and the lock the door.

**Chapter 14: Comfort and Betrayal**

Early in the morning, Sylvia took a walk.

Normally, she'd have a guard with her, per Oswald's insistent request, but for a visit like this, she preferred her company to be solitude. And per her comfort, she wore something inconspicuous: black sweat pants, flats, and a forest green, cotton sweatshirt. While she appeared harmless, she actually had two daggers sheathed in leather bands on her forearms, hidden by her sleeves.

'Harmless' had little on her, though.

In The Flea, most people knew who she was. It was a shopping mall for the homeless, the wretch, and the unnamed. Its Fences came with low-sell values, and priceless marketable sales. If she felt charitable, she even bought a few things just to boost the children's spirits. Once or twice, she'd come just to _give_ money away…she kept this part unknown to Oswald; she never said much to him, but knowing him, Sylvia was certain he _knew_ of her charitable hobby. It didn't impact _him_ financially, after all.

They had separate bank accounts.

A stark, angry-looking fellow stood in front of a dark evergreen door; his eyes were dull, and he had that thousand-yard stare. Perhaps he was a war veteran; or maybe, he was just a man who had seen too much in Gotham. Dark-haired, forgettable face.

"Good morning, stranger." Sylvia greeted with a light smile.

"Ain't good." He sniffed.

"Well, then. 'Morning'. Is that any better?"

"Nothing's better."

"You're a hard character to charm, aren't you?" Sylvia said, smirking at him. "Is that why they placed you at the front lines?"

"I don't like people," He answered, giving her a once-over. "What're you here for, huh?"

"I'm meeting someone." Sylvia answered politely. "I'm actually a little late for my appointment."

"What kind of appointment?"

"One that I'd prefer you kept quiet." Sylvia said slyly. "If you'd let me in, I could make it worth your while."

His cheap grin that came after made her frown.

"Nothing like _that_ ," Sylvia said coolly. She held up her hand, showing her wedding band. "I'm married, see?"

"That's a nice ring. Your husband give that to you?"

"No, I found it in the pit of hell, thought it looked nice, and I paid off the Devil with my soul."

"That's a lot of sarcasm."

"Yes, it is." Sylvia returned. She reached inside the front of her sweatshirt casually, and took out five bills; both of which were twenties each. "Now, I can give you this, and you let me by."

"Or?"

"You don't want to know the fucking alternative, fly boy."

He glanced, and noticed that his zipper was down. He quickly remedied that, before smirking at her.

"I still feel like you owe me a little more if I let you in."

In a matter of seconds, Sylvia had him on his knees, a dagger to his throat, and her voice was acidic as she spoke dangerously in his ear: "Fine. We'll do it the hard way. Open the _fucking_ door, or I'll slit your throat."

"Okay, okay! God _damn_ , no need to be so rough!" He cried. He quickly knocked on the door.

Someone heard and they quickly hopped to it. When a slender fellow answered, he looked taken aback by the sight; a woman, no more than five feet, holding a blade to a man who was at least seven-foot-tall. Once the door was open, Sylvia let him go.

"You can still keep the money, since I'm in pretty good mood. But you know. Manners don't cost anything." Sylvia said unhappily. She smiled sweetly at the young man, "Thank you, sweetheart."

While the large, dark-haired, angry-looking man had no idea who she was, the slender fella told the former, "Why the hell were you trying to hustle her? She's the fucking Lark, man!"

" _That's_ her?"

" _Penguin's_ wife."

"I know _who_ she is—Well, fuck me. I didn't know what she looked like!"

Sylvia grinned inwardly as the argument continued before going on her way. Even though she had some time to get used to hearing her new title, 'The Lark', it still felt weird hearing people call her that. Perhaps it was just a matter of getting over the fact that she was definitely not a morning person. The only thing she had in common with the songbird was its melody. Aside from that….nothing else. Then again, perhaps Oswald had the same bond with his own moniker; the only thing he had in common with a penguin was his walk…

Sylvia strayed in an area that could be called a 'courtyard', since the Flea was something of a shopping mall. Her eyes wandered through the various 'stores'; they all offered one thing: possibly cheap old items for nothing it was valued: a golden watch at $500 when it was nothing more than a $20 one you'd buy at a Walmart; 'real' Cashmere sweaters… _not_ in **this** part of Gotham, surely.

A hand tugged on Sylvia's sweater. Her instinct was to cut the hand off, but she quelled that particular instinct when she turned to see that it was a young girl, standing no taller than her waist. Smiling down at the redhead, Sylvia greeted her with an open hand shake.

"Ms. Pepper."

"Lark."

Ivy Pepper had been enlisted into Sylvia's rank only a few months ago, but she'd not been needed so frequently. Sylvia used other people to find out information, more bruisers than sweet little girls: Dagger, Chilly, Butch, Gabe…and back then, Mr. Bell. Infrequently did Sylvia ever need someone so meek, so quiet…but there was more to Ivy Pepper than what met the eye, if only the young lass was given a chance to prove herself.

"I'm sorry I was late," Sylvia apologized, looking down at her sincerely. "The entry staff are fucking rude."

"Bole?"

"Who?"

"Bole," Ivy said, pointing her thumb behind her to indicate the larger, angry man. "He's _always_ like that."

"Well, he needs to find some fucking manners, doesn't he?"

"I knew I'd like you."

"Well, I like you too."

"Did you wanna go somewhere?" Ivy asked, glancing around. "I don't know where but…"

"I'd rather talk somewhere more private. Probably a stupid question, but do you like ice cream?"

"What kid _doesn't_ like ice cream?"

"Good point."

Ivy shrugged, smiling sheepishly.

"Did you eat lunch?"

"What do _you_ think?"

"You're pretty mouthy, aren't you?"

"No other way to be, Mrs. P." Ivy sighed.

Sylvia grinned broadly, holding out her hand. Ivy took it, and they silently left The Flea. Instead of ice cream in mind, Sylvia went to the nearest hamburger joint, bought them a course meal. It was not as private as she might have liked, but a meeting like this was probably best done in public. There weren't many details for the job just yet. After all, she had only minor suspicions.

"You look different." Sylvia noted, glancing Ivy over.

"New hair style."

It took her a moment to realize that Ivy had been joking and Sylvia let out a delightful chuckle when she got the joke.

"I have a job for you, if you're interested." Sylvia offered, sitting back and wiping her chin with a napkin.

"What kind of job?"

"You want to know the details?"

"I figure I should," Ivy mumbled. "Cat'll want to know if I asked."

Sylvia leaned forward, crossing her arms, saying, "Do you tell Cat everything?"

"Not everything. But she always comes and visits me…you know, here and there. She gives me money, sometimes. But most of the time, she's hanging out with Billionaire Boy."

"Billionaire b…Bruce Wayne?" Sylvia recollected.

Ivy smirked.

"You catch on quick, don't you, Lark."

"You're a quick one yourself."

"Yeah, well, flattery ain't goin' to get you anywhere," She sassed, giving her a little bit of a mouthy look before she started digging into her meal. "These fries are pretty good, where's the ketchup?"

Sylvia flagged down a waiter, who came by and brought another Ketchup bottle. He left quickly. Ivy noticed.

"People know who you are. Don't they?" Ivy said, glancing back at the waiter who was trying to avoid getting flagged down again. "They're afraid of you."

"I'd say they're more about avoidance than fear."

"Still, though. They take you seriously."

"I suppose so."

Ivy munched quietly on her fries a little longer, thoughtfully. After she was done, she pushed her basket with plastic wrappings away from her.

"What's the job, Lark?" She asked more seriously. "If it's killing people, or something, I've never—it's not that I can't, you know."

"Oh, Ms. Pepper. Anyone can kill people." Sylvia rolled her eyes and waved a hand dismissively. "That's not a talent. It's a marketable trade, don't get me wrong. But the trade is a dime, a dozen. Let's be honest; if I wanted someone killed, I'd be doing the deed. I wouldn't let a little girl do it. You're too young—"

Ivy stood on her knees in her seat, her hands on the table.

"I'm young, but I've _seen_ things." Ivy declared fiercely, her eyes wide but fiery. "People don't get that!"

Sylvia clicked her tongue dangerously, and Ivy sensed the warning before the woman in front of her had to say anything. Steadily, Ivy slowly sat back down, glancing around them, noticing, too, that people had started looking in their direction.

"First things first, Ms. Pepper. _Your_ father was taken down by the police, and _your_ mother slit her wrists, and that makes _you_ an orphan. All of that makes it hard for someone like you to make a name in a town where everyone has the same sob story. It's hard to prove yourself when you're standing beside people like Cat; she casts quite the shadow, doesn't she?"

Ivy frowned, a temper tantrum boiling inside. But Sylvia could see it. And it was the only reason Ivy said nothing at this point.

"I, more than anyone else, can understand where you're coming from. You want to be treated like an adult, don't you?" She asked calmly.

"Yeah." Ivy's bottom lip sat forward, in a pout.

"If you want to start acting out like a child, that's how I will treat you." She dipped her hand inside her sweatshirt and pulled out a wad of bills bound tightly in a rubber band. "I don't need the help of a child. I need a spy. Now, if you want to be my _spy_ , then we can move forward."

Ivy took the money, looking at it quizzically.

"Is this it?"

"This is a down payment."

"For?"

"See, now you're asking the right questions, and without Cat's help."

"Yeah, I guess so, but that doesn't answer my question, Lark."

"Well, Ms. Pepper, that kind of talk will have to take place outside of this diner. So…interested?"

Ivy glanced at the money, then out of the window, in the direction of the Flea. Before she could make up her mind, Ivy held out her hand, determination written all over her face.

Sylvia smiled widely, took her hand, and shook it.

Once her deal with Ivy Pepper had been settled (along with giving the girl something of a meal ticket for the next two days, per Ivy's own condition), Sylvia made her way to the GCPD station.

Back when things weren't so chaotic, the Desk Sergeant welcomed pretty much anyone into the facility without so much as a once-over check for weapons and the like. Due to people like Jerome Valeska, Theo Galavan, Hugo Strange's Monsters, including the one that impersonated Jim Gordon himself, and god-only-knows who or what else, the Desk Sergeant did weapon checks with anyone.

Sylvia was no different.

As she entered through the double doors, she gave a brief derisive chuckle when the sergeant politely asked her to relieve herself of all and any weapons on her. She took off her sweatshirt, revealing a turquoise halter top. She unstrapped the arm guards containing her daggers, and lifted both pant legs where two knives had been strapped to her calves with Velcro. She placed these in front of the officer as well. The Desk Sergeant stared at her with wide eyes, taken aback, by her weaponry before letting her go, although with some hesitation.

She met with Harvey Bullock and Jim Gordon who were standing on the tallest balcony, above the one where Captain Barnes regularly stood, giving orders to his beloved Strike Force.

Harvey smirked at her, chuckling, "Are you sure you don't have any more?"

"Any more _what_?" Sylvia questioned.

"Weapons."

"I'd offer you to do a strip search but I'm too afraid you'll say 'yes'," Sylvia said, smirking when Harvey let out a sarcastic ha-ha, before guiltily grinning at Jim, who rolled his eyes. "How was the bounty tonight?"

She leaned against the railing while the former detective and the current detective leaned casually over it, their hands clasped together solemnly.

"It paid."

"Almost get killed?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd say that was a 'yes'. Thanks, by the way."

"For?"

"Finding out what happened to Mom."

Jim looked at her, startled. Then, as though realizing just what Oswald had done, he growled, "He wasn't supposed—"

"Ohh ho-ho, ho…" Sylvia jeered, smiling cleverly at him. "So it _was_ you who told Oswald not to tell me anything, wasn't it?"

"Tell you what?" Harvey interjected, suddenly taken in by the excitement.

"It's not that I didn't want you to find out—"

"—Tell her what, Jim—"

"Shut up, Harvey—"

Sylvia waved Jim away and stood between him and Harvey, who she addressed with sarcastic cheer, "Well, you see, Harv. My big brother here" (Jim put his hands over his face, exhausted.) "was asked to find out what happened to our dear mother…as a favor to Oswald, you know, like a gift for our anniversary, in an attempt to find me some closure."

Harvey seemed to look as though he wasn't sure whether to be amused like Sylvia or sympathetic to his partner, who by all rights, was facepalming himself pretty hard.

"This White Knight," Sylvia mused, patting Jim on the back, "told my husband _not_ to tell me what really happened to our mother. Or should I even go as far as to say that he even _threatened_ him."

"Vee…"

"Save it." She sighed, waving her hand. "It's fine."

"You know," said Harvey carefully. "When a woman says 'it's fine', it's never 'fine'. In fact, I've learned that it is _far_ from 'fine' than possible, like _humanely_ possible."

"I didn't know how you would've reacted." Jim attempted to explain. "Penguin told me how you reacted when your butler left. A _butler_."

"He wasn't just my butler, James Gordon!"

"Oh, whoa…" Harvey muttered, stepping out of the cross fire. "She just brought out the first-and-last name bit. I'm gonna stay over here, partner. You know…out of the splash zone."

Jim gave him a look that said 'oh, wow, thanks' but returned his attention reluctantly to his sister, who was crossing her arms and looking more than appalled.

"He was my mentor, and a friend." Sylvia said coldly. "He and I were close enough, like family, and I loved him like I was his daughter. He tells me he has cancer, and then he just up and leaves me! Why _wouldn't_ I react the way I did."

"Vee...Oswald told me you picked up Butch and _threw_ him." Jim hissed, an attempt to keep their argument to a low decimal.

"No way!" Harvey guffawed. "You can pick up someone as big as Butch! Man, that is _awesome_!"

"Harvey!"

"Okay, okay...I'm just standing here. You won't even know I'm here."

Jim and Sylvia turned away from him to glare at each other.

"Okay, look," Jim began patiently, holding his hands out. "I guess Oswald knows you better—"

"—Clearly—"

"—but in my defense, you've always been unpredictable. I never know how you're going to react and after Oswald told me what happened, there was no way I could have predicted how you'd have reacted when you found out our mother never wanted us."

"Eesh, _ouch_." Harvey muttered, wincing.

Sylvia gave him a look, and he cleared his throat, choosing to become more interested with the wallpaper.

"You should know me by now. You should be able to predict what I'll do. Mom never meant much to me...if anyone mattered to me, it was you. It still _is_ you."

"Aw, that's touching." Harvey drawled from the sidelines.

Jim sighed, "Bullock, I swear to god, one more word—"

"How about I just get a coffee? I feel like my energy is going down, anyway. Why don't I just, yeah, that's what I'll do. Excuse me, Little Sister." Harvey said, politely squeezing past Sylvia to head downstairs for his cup of Joe.

Sylvia watched him leave, shaking her head as though she couldn't see how Jim continued to put up with him. Her smile outlasted her derision as she looked at Jim, her expression changing from an angry one to that of a familial softness.

"I appreciate you looking after me. You _and_ Oswald. But what happened to you not wanting to lie to me anymore?"

"Vee, it's hard when it comes to you."

"And you're a complicated nut case yourself."

"Well, I'm glad we had this discussion."

"I'm glad too. So, what monster beat you down this time?"

"Some prehistoric buffoon, what the hell do I know. And he _didn't_ beat me down."

"Is that why you're here? To collect your bounty?"

"Maybe."

"Why else would you be here? You're not here to get your badge back, are you?"

"Is that hope I hear in your voice, Vee?"

"Hope? Perhaps it was dread."

"Ha-ha. Real funny."

"By the way, I'm pregnant."

"Well, that's— _what_!"

"Oh, look, Harvey's back. Heyyyy!" Sylvia greeted, leaving Jim to stare after her as she greeted Harvey happily, wrapping her arms around him.

"Now, that's more like it!" Harvey said loudly. "So, we like old Harvey again, huh?"

"I've always liked you. I just can't stand it when you butt into conversations that are meant to be one-on-one. When you do, it's like you're a third wheel while my brother and I are trying to have a moment."

"If you ever need a moment, Liv, you know you can tell me."

"Tried it, did it, never worked—try something else, Harvey." Sylvia said, clicking her tongue.

"So, what are you up to now?"

"The usual."

Jim gritted his teeth, grabbed Sylvia by the arm and pulled her aside, clearly out of Harvey's hearing.

"I was in the middle of a discussion," She reminded coolly.

"I'm aware. What the hell do you mean 'you're pregnant'."

"I meant it in the way it sounds."

"Who's the father?"

Sylvia stared at him and said dangerously, "I'm going to pretend you did _not_ just ask me that."

Jim seemed to realize his mistake and he let go of her quickly, saying just as swiftly, "You know what I meant."

"Yeah, I know what you meant…still, you might want to watch how you word things. I would have been in my right to slap you and no one would have said anything to me about it." Sylvia said harshly. "And to answer your question—however **stupid** it was—of _course_ , it's Oswald… 'who's the father', what kind of idiotic question is that. _Jackass_."

She gave him a hard slap to the back of his head, but Jim took his punishment easily.

"Well, how far along are you?"

"A couple of weeks."

"Are you leaving Gotham?"

"Why would I do that?"

"It's dangerous here."

"It's dangerous _everywhere_." Sylvia reasoned, gesticulating to the entire GCPD. "The safest place in Gotham has become a war zone a few times. And don't you think I know that? I wasn't born yesterday; I don't have 'stupid' written on my face. Even if I _was_ born yesterday, it doesn't matter. Gotham is just as safe as any place else in the world, and, furthermore, it's my home. So, if you think about using _this_ " (She touched her belly) "against me, you've got another rant coming, buddy."

Jim held up his hands cautiously.

"I just want to make sure you're okay."

"Yeah, well, I'm just fucking peachy."

"How does Penguin feel about you staying in Gotham?"

"He and I have spoken. We're fine with Gotham. Gotham is… _Gotham_."

"You're not scared that someone will find out about your pregnancy, use it against you? You're the 'Lark', after all. He's the Penguin."

Sylvia glared at him: "Why did you say it in that tone?"

"What tone?"

"That sarcastic one. You said 'Lark' like it's some stupid remark."

"I said it normally."

"Pfft, you did _not_ say it normally."

"I did!" Jim hissed.

"You so did not. That's like me saying your 'who's the father' comment was smart. Yeah, it's _smart._ "

"Vee, I know—"

"Trust me, Jim. If anyone—and I do mean ' _anyone'_ —tries to hurt my baby, I will cut off their arms and legs, and watch them bleed to death, right before I cut off their head." Sylvia said darkly. "And that's not just a bluff or a threat, sweetheart. That's a fucking promise."

Jim cleared his throat as Captain Barnes alerted the rest of the GCPD that a press conference was being held, and that the 'Honorable' Mayor James would be in attendance.

"So, I guess you'll be leaving," Harvey sighed unhappily.

"Leaving?" Sylvia asked, meeting him at the balcony once more. "Why would I be leaving? I _love_ watching Aubrey James talk out of his hairy butt."

"How do you know it's hairy?" Harvey asked uncomfortably.

"You've not seen the pictures?"

"What pictures?" Harvey and Jim voiced simultaneously.

She shrugged mysteriously. Captain Barnes looked at the balcony, noticed that Sylvia was presiding there, and he shouted for her to come down.

"Well, she'll be going _now_ ," muttered Harvey as he and Jim watched Sylvia stalk down the stairs." There's no way Barnes'll let her stay for the conference."

Sylvia approached their captain, who looked at her with little respite.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He demanded.

"Good evening to you too, Captain," She greeted sarcastically. "Is that how you greet every civilian?"

"Don't act like you're innocent, Mrs. Cobblepot. You've been having behind-the-scene conversations with the Commissioner," Barnes stated, glaring at her. "As much as he talks highly about you, I'd hope you'd be more respectful. Courteous, even."

"You greet me with 'what the hell are you doing here', and you want me to _give_ you respect?"

"Oh _shit_ …" Jim mumbled, putting his head down on the wooden railing.

Barnes' veins in his forehead protruded suddenly, like he might blow a gasket. Sylvia crossed her arms.

"I've not disturbed what little peace you have going on here, Captain Barnes. I've not said a fucking word of disrespect—to you or anyone else. You shout at me from the ground floor, then question my reason for being here, not knowing why I've come here _at all_." She reprimanded. "I _may_ talk to your Commissioner—god knows he's more goddamn respectful than you'll ever be—but you could use a little self-discussion yourself, mister."

Barnes said unhappily, "I think it's best that you leave, Mrs. Cobblepot."

"On a contrary, I think it's better if I stay." Sylvia argued. "I came to talk to my brother, check on him, seeing as he's the only fucking person in this goddamn building doing a single fucking thing about the fucking monsters doing only god-knows-what outside. Now, if you'll excuse me!"

She stomped up the stairs, like a bratty girl going through the phase of her teenage years, but that was to prove a point. As long as she wasn't causing any (more) disturbances, she had the freedom and the right to be inside the station.

Gritting his teeth, holding down his temper, tightening his fist, Barnes growled before leaving to his office so he could soften his anger before the press arrived.

"You're going to give our Captain a stroke if you're not careful," Harvey cautioned gently. "You know, he used to be a Marine."

"Military or not, he should be a professional. Jim is the _only_ person doing anything about Strange's fucking strays, and I wanted him to know it."

"So, he knows it. There's nothing else to be done."

Sylvia smiled inwardly and said softly, "Isn't there?"

Jim and Harvey glanced at one another uneasily.

The press arrived, alongside Mayor James. As promised to Jim prior to their arrival, Sylvia remained quiet, standing in the dark sidelines with him and Harvey, looking on. Barnes took the lime light, standing at what was serving as something of a podium, his hands on the railing as he addressed the flashing lights, microphones, and audio tape recorders.

"At eight-fifteen this evening," Barnes said coolly, "an individual robbed a pharmacy and attacked its owner. While we don't have an I.D. as of yet, we believe that this individual is another escapee from Indian Hill."

The reporters clamored, trying to talk over one another.

One shouted, "Are these monsters dangerous?"

Another tried to get his attention, shouting, "Captain Barnes! Captain Barnes!"

A young tanned, Asian woman with doe eyes pushed through the other reporters, determined, as she introduced herself: "Valerie Vale, 'Gotham Gazette'. Why can't we see the escapee?"

"Because crews are still picking up the pieces."

"This isn't the first time that a bounty hunter has apprehended an escapee from Indian Hill. Is the GCPD incapable of handling the threat themselves?" Vale questioned.

Sylvia glanced at Jim, who tried not to look her way, but he figured she was smirking knowingly.

"Whoa!" Barnes said carefully. "Only a handful of these escapees were brought in by bounty hunters—"

Sylvia leaned into Jim, and whispered, "Ha…bounty hunter ** _s_** _._ I like the plural. Gives it more 'finesse'."

"Hush, Vee."

"—The vast majority were apprehended by the GCPD," Barnes finished.

Vale looked less than convinced as she transcribed what was being reported.

As though ready to take some questions and relieving Barnes of the heat, Mayor James stepped forth. Sylvia rolled her eyes, muttering, "Oh, _here_ we go."

" _Vee_!"

Harvey muttered, "She's got a point, Jimbo."

Mayor James said strongly, "I take issue with the word 'threat'. These escapees are themselves victims of Huge Strange."

"Hugo Strange," Sylvia mumbled. "Yet another fucker I'd like to see hang by his—"

" _Shh_!" Jim said, tapping her arm impatiently.

Mayor James continued in spite of the murmurs from above and below: "Now if any ordinary, hard-working citizen wants to help get these poor souls off the street, so that they may receive proper treatment, well these citizens should be lauded and rewarded financially."

" _Mr. James_ ," Vale said strictly. "Before they were taken to Indian Hill, these 'poor souls' were all criminally insane inmates at Arkham Asylum, were they not?"

Mayor James looked at her for a second then said quickly, "Next question."

"This is fucking ridiculous," Sylvia grumbled, emitting an inhuman, almost lion-like growl, before she sat down on the edge of Harvey's desk.

"You hear that?" Harvey joked. "You could be _lauded_."

"I prefer the cash." Jim returned.

"How many escapees have you brought in now? Five? Six? Five grand, a pop? That's not bad."

"Yeah."

"And what happens when Gotham runs out of monsters?"

"There are always monsters in Gotham," Jim relayed confidently.

"I really can't get you to come back, huh? Look," Harvey began once he sat at his desk, leaning forward, minding Sylvia's presence for a moment before turning to Jim seriously. "Whatever happened when you went to see Lee—"

Sylvia suddenly turned around, raising her eyebrows: "You went to see Lee?"

"What happened to just one-on-one conversations, doll?" Harvey asked pointedly.

"Shut your face, Harv. Jim, how come you never told me you went to see her?"

"Guys..."

"You know I don't want to pry…" Harvey continued.

Jim flashed him a sarcastic smile, saying just as cynically, "Oh, I know you don't."

"That's because you don't tell me anything! You know? A man's not supposed to be alone. You've got family here," Harvey attempted to persuade. As an afterthought, he put a hand on Sylvia's thigh, adding, "And you've got Little Sister!"

Sylvia picked up Harvey's hand and moved it to his desk, smiling politely but her eyes said all he needed to know. He sent her an apologetic glance before he addressed Jim.

"You don't have any problem chasing down Hugo Strange's freaks."

"Whoa, Harvey. Watch who you call a 'freak'. That's a fightin' word." Sylvia warned.

"Well, we all know you're a freak in the sheets, baby doll."

"How the hell would _you_ know."

"All redheads are, including myself."

"Again. Shut your face."

"Considering I know how mouthy you get," Harvey said smoothly, "I think that's a pretty good compliment, don't you think, Jim?"

Jim rolled his eyes again.

"You're a cop in everything, but name."

"Yeah," he agreed. "But I don't have to listen to Barnes. I can go home when I want, get drunk when I want…And I don't have him breathing over my shoulder the entire time. And at the end of the day, I sleep. Because I know Gotham's not my responsibility anymore."

"Not to poop on your party," Sylvia mused, "but Gotham never _was_ your responsibility. You took it under your wing. _You—_ and only you—claimed it for your own."

"Like your hubby did, huh." Harvey said, chuckling. "'King of Gotham'…that still gives me a nice, evil chuckle. Mwuahahaha!"

"Third time: Shut your fucking face."

"I love poking you, doll. You make it _too_ easy."

"Well, you'll poke too much one day and I'm going to end up shoving a fork into your winking eyeball."

"Phew! That's a little strong, don't you think?"

"Only one way to see."

Harvey raised his eyebrows at Jim incredulously while Jim shook his head.

"In all seriousness, I love you like a brother. But you've gotta stop blaming what happened between you and Lee on the job. And do you _really_ think I don't get drunk when I want," Harvey said smoothly, grinning pointedly as he knocked back a few gulps from his flask.

A few footsteps were heard coming from behind her; Sylvia stood, seeing Lucius Fox. She grinned idly, considering the first time they'd met was back when they all were amped up, armed, and ready to go after Galavan. The most recent included the lot of them being trapped in a holding room where all of them had been drugged in some shape or form by either Strange, Ed, or his orderlies.

"Detective Bullock," He said professionally. "I looked into the drug that escapee was after. It's a powerful immune suppressant."

He noticed both Jim and Sylvia.

"Gordon…Mrs. Cobblepot." Fox greeted.

"See," Harvey continued. "Look at Lucius, here. Our new resident expert on all things scientific. He said 'sayonara' to Wayne Enterprises robots, hmm, and he _loves_ it here."

Jim peered at Fox skeptically. The latter smiled in response.

"Wayne Enterprises," He stated factually (much like he always sounded), "revealed itself as morally corrupt. Here, despite the primitive facilities, casual violence, fascistic meathead culture—"

"—Lucius—"

"—I love it here."

"So, in essence, you're Ed's replacement." Sylvia pointed out, looking at him.

"Right, I see how awkward this might be for you."

"Not awkward at all." She reassured.

"Well, I know how he's your friend and all…"

"He tried to poison you and Bruce Wayne. And he framed my dear brother for a crime that _I_ committed."

"Careful, Little Sister," Harvey whispered. "You're still in a police station."

"And, yet," Fox said lightly, "Mr. Nygma _did_ save us all by letting us into Strange's basement."

"Point taken. Still: your position here seems well-deserved, as is Ed's current predicament."

"He's quite a complicated man, isn't he?"

"Ed? Oh yes, quite."

"You seem like a complicated person yourself."

"Oh, _yes_ , I am." Sylvia agreed, flattered. "I can't take all the credit though; it's a Gordon trait."

"I must agree with you."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Fox."

"By all means, you're very welcome. And how have _you_ been?"

"Just peachy," Sylvia said, smiling genuinely at him. "And you?"

"Well, Harvey just summarized the past six months for me, actually." Fox said generously, gesticulating to the detective, who, alongside Jim, watched Fox and Sylvia converse with odd but satisfied expressions on their faces.

"Anyway," Fox continued, smiling at the lot of them. "That drug is _only_ sold at three pharmacies in the city, and the other two pharmacies were both robbed in the last month. The question is: Why are Indian Hill escapees robbing pharmacies now?"

"Good question," Harvey humored. He turned to Jim: "So, what do you say just like the old days, you and me run it together, huh, partner?"

Jim considered it for a moment before he said finally, "You get a hard lead on an escapee and the price is right, I'll bring him in. Thanks for the drink. Lucius. Vee…" He walked away.

Harvey sighed in defeat.

"How come you don't ask me to go along with your adventures?" Sylvia questioned curiously. "I know how to carry and use a gun, and it's not like I've not been roped in these police matters in the past."

"Please. The last time you and I did anything together, we were riding in the backseat of a truck with Butch Gilzean, Don Falcone, and your insane husband, dodging Fish and Maroni—something I'd like to avoid, but—"

"First things first, my husband _isn't_ crazy." Sylvia snapped. "Second: Maroni is dead; Falcone's retired, and Butch is on my side—not much else can happen."

"There's still Fish."

"Fish hasn't been seen for months."

"Still…You attract chaos."

"What can I say. It likes the way I taste." Sylvia drawled, smirking at him.

Harvey rolled his eyes, looking at Fox pointedly: "'Fascistic meathead culture'? I mean, you couldn't try to be a little more positive?"

"Oh, I _was_ being positive."

"Uh-huh."

Steadily, the clamoring below was starting to get amped. Harvey, Fox, and Sylvia exchanged knowing looks and they moved to the balcony, peering over the railing to see how Valerie Vale was rousing the Mayor and Captain Barnes.

"Why is Hugo Strange the only one that's been arrested?" Vale questioned loudly.

Mayor James answered, "The situation—"

"—And what about the rumors that Indian Hill is a Wayne Enterprises facility? And how many more of these escapees are at large? Are we talking twenty—"

"—Excuse me—"

"—Thirty—"

"—Excuse _me—_ "

"Come on, just give me a blink if I'm close," Vale insisted.

Mayor James even gesticulated with a single hand as he said, "The situation is _firmly_ in hand!"

"LIAR!"

The crowd murmured. The news reporters turned their lights and audio recorders, and cameras in the direction of the voice, while Mayor James and Captain Barnes looked onward in dread.

On the stands, Fox and Harvey groaned, glancing at Sylvia, who smirked at them knowingly. She moved to the side, heading down the stairs to arm her husband with her presence, but it was Jim who kept her from moving any further.

"Stay here. Trust me." Jim insisted quietly.

"You know how the media works more than I do, is that it?" Sylvia dared.

"Trust. Me."

There was a quiet plea in his voice. It was only for this reason that Sylvia stayed, and Jim's hand, which had been held up in front of her, keeping her still, finally dropped. Together, they stood on the stairwell.

The crowd had parted like the Red Sea. Butch Gilzean stood alongside Oswald, who approached the reporters with finesse, charisma, and confidence that Sylvia would have admittedly dropped in the lime light. After all, the media intimidated the shit out of her.

Sylvia smiled in spite of herself; apparently, her brother _did_ know her.

"My name is Oswald Cobblepot," Oswald announced to the crowd.

"We _know_ who you are, Penguin," Barnes said rudely. "What do you want!"

"What do I want?" Oswald repeated, almost as though he was surprised by the demand. "I want you to tell the truth to the people of Gotham."

He moved through the crowd, all the while, he spoke: "They would have us believe that there is no danger. But I was there that night, when the creatures broke out of Indian Hill. I saw them. And I know who's leading them."

He stood in front of Vale, who smiled. A small, faint, reporter's greedy smile who was just about to receive the best information that a young reporter would ever hope to get, and was just on the brink of breaking a new story for her _Gotham Gazette_.

"Are you saying these escapees are organized?" asked Vale.

"Hello! _That_ is what I am saying."

Mayor James heatedly declared, "There is absolutely _nothing_ to support that!"

Over Vale's head, Oswald spoke directly to Mayor James and Captain Barnes, saying, " _I_ told the police who to look for! I begged them, time and again. And they have done _nothing_. So, I am here to speak directly to the good people of Gotham." He turned to address them as such. "The enemy's name is Fish Mooney."

"Fish Mooney?" Barnes questioned skeptically. "She hasn't been spotted in over six months. She's either long gone, or she's dead."

A trace of irritation torqued his jaw before it was covered up quickly as Oswald glanced over his shoulder at Barnes as he said, "I wish I shared your simple belief."

He turned to the people: "She is a criminal. She is a murderer. And now God knows what kind of monster Hugo Strange has turned her into. I implore every citizen of Gotham, if you love your family, if you love your children, find Fish Mooney. Until then, _no one_ is safe."

Without another glance to the police, Oswald finished and he started to walk away, leaving the reporters greedily searching for more answers, to berate the Mayor and Barnes for more information, and they even shortly followed Oswald before they realized they wouldn't get any more information out of him.

Sylvia glanced at Jim pointedly, waiting for his permission so that she could move. Jim sensed her sarcastic inquiry and, with much resignation, stepped aside and allowed her to pass him on the stairway. As she came down the stairs, Oswald saw her in his peripheral and happily greeted her.

He took her hand in his, and kissed the back of it.

The reporters, apparently, found this newsworthy. They were avaricious for any type of news.

Sylvia smiled at him: "You were fantastic, Ozzie. Very charismatic."

"I'm so glad you enjoyed it."

"So _serious_ ," She lowered her voice to that of some manly timbre, jokingly.

"I _was_ serious."

She kissed his cheek, and smiled at Butch who accompanied him. She greeted him with a smile; he returned it.

As Jim waited around for Harvey—for whatever reason—he stiffened when Oswald started to pass him.

"Hello, Jim."

"Oswald."

"I'm surprised _you_ haven't found Mooney. Being a bounty hunter, and all."

Jim looked him straight in the eye and said coolly, "You haven't made it worth my while" and he strode on ahead.

Oswald looked deeply insulted by that, while Butch chortled, "Ooh, tough guy, now."

"But he makes a point." Oswald commended moodily.

Butch and Sylvia glanced at one another as Oswald started forward and they shook their heads, now abject to whatever Oswald had on his mind left for the evening.

As Delilah stepped out of her car and headed into her home after a night working at _Lean on Vee's_ , Ivy Pepper slowly stepped out of the bushes, ducking down just below the window sill of the worker's first-floor apartment. Thankful that the window to her kitchen was concealed between the building itself and a weedy fence, Ivy was happy to crouch and watch Sylvia's second-in-command talk loudly on the phone.

She didn't catch much of the one-sided conversation. Anything that was related to the business; however, she made a mental note.

Ivy's main concern was that even as this Delilah woman spoke on the phone, she was constantly moving. From the kitchen, to the living room, to the dining room—she was all over the place. At first, Ivy believed that the woman _knew_ she was being spied on…for a second, she did. Then, once she calmed her thoughts—just as Lark had told her how to do it—she realized that Delilah just paced a great deal while she was on the phone.

"Come on…come _on…_ " Ivy grumbled.

She _needed_ something to tell Lark. Anything. Even if Lark didn't expect anything the night of, how great would it be if Ivy watched her target for just a night and came back with something so useful, something so plot-worthy!

"Come on…"

"Come on, baby…" Delilah spoke, running her hands lightly over the kitchen counters like they were newly imported silk covers. "Did you find out _anything…_ What is it? That's _nothing_." An impish grinned twisted Delilah's features. "You should hear what _I_ know about our 'wonderful' boss lady."

Whoever she spoke to on the other line evidently could not wait to know because the woman spit out the news all too eagerly.

Delilah smirked: "She's pregnant."

She listened to the alternate likely spill out all kinds of enthusiasm, however wicked.

"Sylvia's such a mother hen, you know. I pretended like I was scared. 'I'm scared to go to the mean gynecologist, wah'. 'Oh, my boyfriend and I are trying to get pregnant, boo-hoo.' I couldn't _stand_ it…it paid off though."

Ivy frowned. Lark had mentioned to her that she'd grown suspicious of Delilah.

What had she said? ' _The one she replaced betrayed me, I suspect she will too_ '.

But Ivy didn't want to tell Lark what her client already knew. She wanted to give her more than just what she needed to hear. Ivy shifted her weight that lied heavily on her toes; she had to nearly go full ballerina stance just to see over the window sill; and she quickly glanced left and right to make sure no one was watching her.

"Are you really certain you want to go through with this?" Delilah asked uncertainly, drawing Ivy's attention. "I mean, I want it just as much as you do, but…look at everything she's done for me, for _you_ , even."

Whatever the other person said on the other line obviously made Delilah unhappy. She frowned. As the woman was dishing out some coffee grounds into the maker, a few spilled over when she passionately placed the bag of coffee onto the counter.

"You and I have both worked hard to get where we are, that's not a lie." Delilah said harshly. "I've taken more crap from these people than I can possibly take for the rest of my life, but there's a line, you know. I'm not _happy_ that we have to do this. Having a baby should be a great thing, you know? It should be Liv's moment. And she deserves it! And she has done so much for me."

There was a pause as Delilah's angry face became one of guilt, as she responded to the caller: "She likes for me to call her that…whether she is or isn't, she's _like_ a friend."

Ivy shifted in her position, her feet starting to fall asleep from crouching too much. When she did, the window sill made a creak. Delilah's eyes shot in her direction. Ivy hadn't been fast enough to duck down just in time. Instead, she heard the woman's heels storming out of the apartment, boots to the ground.

" _Shit_!" Ivy squeaked.

She started running. Delilah ran after her.

She ran faster.

Delilah quickened her pace.

It wasn't until Ivy was halfway down to the Flea when her side started hurting. By then, Delilah had gotten in her car, the ignition roaring to life.

A few more minutes too late and Ivy might have been run over!

The wheels screeched the pavement.

Then there were gun shots. Loud like thunder.

Ivy's heart beat quickly as she ducked into the alley.

Delilah searched the area. Her features shifted to an expression to that of defeat and reluctance. To preserve her right to rule, she'd have to gun down a little girl. As she approached the alley, she had already made up her mind, knowing what she would have to do. With her gun drawn, she edged towards The Flea, side-stepping the front door.

Then to the alley.

She found Ivy, all right: She stood behind a woman whose crimson hair was just as red as her face as Delilah came face to face with her boss.

Seeing her, Delilah dropped her gun.

"Liv—" She began.

Sylvia's arm was wrapped around Ivy's shoulder; the latter was still breathing so hard, not just from running but from fear. She didn't spare a moment's mercy; instead, she aimed her own gun at Delilah, shot her right between the eyes, and watched her body fall over, lifeless.

Ivy yelped, pushing her face into Sylvia's hip.

"Come with me, my girl." Sylvia cooed, rubbing her shoulder. "It's okay. You did what I asked of you, and you did _beautifully_. Come along, now."

People from The Flea scurried out to see who'd died tonight. Seeing Sylvia, some of them backed down immediately.

"She's yours." She said apathetically, waving to the dead woman. "Take what you want."

Ivy watched as the lot suddenly swarmed around Delilah, like vultures around road kill. She walked with Sylvia to the end of the road.

"I want to give you something, dearest."

"What?" Ivy asked. "I-I told you what she did, what she said. You said I did okay, you said I was—"

"I'm not going to kill you."

"Oh…okay, then what…?"

Sylvia held out a necklace to her. Ivy took it curiously, looking it over with little interest until she saw the pendant. It appeared to be a single rose (no stem) trapped inside ceramic filling.

"Why would you give me this?" asked Ivy, holding the necklace out to her. "It's dying."

"It's made of paper, I swear. I would have given you a real one, but I know how you feel about your vegetative friends. And I know you like plants, so I thought I'd give it to you."

"Is it a tracker?"

"Nothing like that."

"Is it a bomb?"

"Of _course_ not." Sylvia said, looking at her, taken aback. "My god, child, what do you think I am, a monster?"

"That's what people say about you." Ivy reminded practically. "And you _did_ just…" She glanced back where a few scavengers like her were picking everything from Delilah's corpse, from her jewelry, to her wallet, even to her boots.

"I'm many things, but if it's any consolation, I don't kill kids."

Ivy smiled and she put the necklace around her neck, touching the pendant and peered up at her: "Are you _really_ pregnant?"

Sylvia hesitated with good reason before she whispered, "I am."

"Can I touch?"

"You won't feel much of anything. I'm not far along."

"Still…?"

"Sure."

Ivy touched Sylvia's belly, and smiled up at her: "We should bet on whether it'll be a boy or a girl."

"Ms. Pepper!"

"Call me 'Ivy'." She said, grinning. "And I think it'd be a fun game. If I win, you buy me a hamburger."

"And if I win?"

"I get to watch you buy me a hamburger."

"That's not much of a bet, Ivy."

"It is for _me_. Win-Win."

"That's not…sure, fine. A bet's a bet." Sylvia said, holding out her hand.

"Boy or girl?"

"Does it matter?"

Ivy shook her hand and said, " _Now_ you're getting it."

Sylvia rolled her eyes.

"Stay somewhere. Not here, though."

She handed the little girl a little velvet bag. Ivy took a look inside, and she grinned gratefully.

"When will I see you again?"

"If I need you to spy on someone else, probably. You did well, Love."

Ivy grinned proudly at herself and then ran off to find the closest hotel so she could sleep in a comfy bed. Sylvia watched after her until she couldn't see her anymore.

Sylvia came back to the mansion that night, dragging her feet. She climbed into bed, still wearing her day clothes.

Oswald was somewhat asleep. When there was a substantial shift of weight in the bed, he stirred, mumbling something she couldn't understand, and turned on his side, looking at her tiredly. Now, she sat on the edge of the mattress, taking off her shoes.

"You're back." He mumbled.

With an attempt of humor, she responded, "I've returned, yes."

"Good. Get under the covers with me."

Sylvia slipped out of her clothes, pulled on her night slip, and joined Oswald in bed. When he felt her body next to him, Oswald, still with his eyes closed, cuddled up to her.

She lied on her back; he, on his side, snuggled close.

"I killed Delilah tonight."

"Am I to guess that your suspicions were correct, then?"

"Betrayal," She confirmed stoically. "Just like Brittany. I'm beginning to think that position is tabooed."

"We really have to start doing background checks on our staff," Oswald exhaled sleepily.

"I know. I keep having to buy new ammunition; it's really starting to burn a hole in my wallet."

Oswald chuckled quietly, opening his eyes so he looked at her: "That's not _exactly_ what I meant, but that's a fair point, too."

"I know what you meant, sweetheart. It was a half-baked attempt at humor."

She almost resisted him when he touched the side of her face, so her mouth moved closer to his. When he moved the rest of the way for a kiss, she slowly relaxed into it, smiling even, returning it.

"I expected it, I think." Sylvia said quietly. "On some level, I wouldn't have thought it would be Delilah. She was smarter, more outgoing. She was the last person who I thought would betray me."

"Finding a protege is a challenging task."

"Finding one shouldn't be _this_ difficult."

"It comes with time, Pet."

Sylvia murmured sadly, "It shouldn't be this painful either."

Oswald heard the slightest emotional hitch in her voice and he looked at her plainly to see that she was mulling the betrayal over in her head. He cleared his throat, and sat up. She mirrored him, doing the same.

"Pigeon, you and I—and perhaps, others too—know how attached you are with the staff. It's a trait that I think is not only unique, but I believe it's also one of your greatest weaknesses."

"You'd prefer that I keep everything professional? No informality, what so ever? You know I don't operate that way. It _can't_ be all business."

"It's _not_ always business."

"The clubs, the meetings, the bargains, negotiations, even speeches— _all_ of it is business," Sylvia said tiredly. "I've told you before, I'm _not_ that type of person. That's why I joke, and I cut up with people—staff, enemy, friend, who _cares_. I didn't grow up…like that."

"I know. It's what I love most about you."

"Oh, so is that it, hm? I have the chip on my shoulder, and you're the business-like architect."

"It's not uncommon knowledge between us, Pigeon. I'm a builder, you're a destroyer. We've known that from the word 'go'. Personally, I think we complement each other."

"Right. You: a wine-and-dine, five-star, Bed and Breakfast hotel. Me: casual as a diner. It appears that way, doesn't it?" Sylvia said, smiling contentedly.

"A diner, perhaps, but with a lot more sophistication than any of which I have ever visited."

Oswald kissed her forehead and Sylvia beamed.

"I'd recommend managing your club solo for the moment," He suggested. "If Delilah did as she had planned, I wouldn't know how—"

She sensed his worry.

"It didn't happen." She consoled, smiling at him lovingly. "She's dead. I'm not. I think that's a good sign, right?"

Hearing her words, Oswald put the terrible image of a dead Sylvia out of his mind and basked in the present.

"Obviously true, but now you've yet another worrisome factor to consider." He advised.

"And that is?"

"Your spy said she was talking on the phone."

"Mm-hmm."

"This is a person with whom she felt comfortable discussing plans to betray you."

Sylvia frowned, and her eyes flickered from Oswald to the covers as she took a few handfuls and muttered, "Ooh, you're right…I hadn't considered that before. There's someone else, then."

"It would seem so."

She turned completely to him; the motion alone made Oswald look at her unexpectedly. She took his hand in her trembling one, and said uncertainly, "Tell me. How do I find that out?"

"If you allowed Delilah to live, you might have found out from _her_."

"She chased my spy _through_ four different alleys," Sylvia said defensively. "Delilah threatened to kill her, after everything she's done for me so far. I wasn't about to let that happen!"

"I can understand that, Pigeon, but the fact is: you let your emotions get the best of you."

"Oh, this coming from someone who's _driven_ by their own emotions." She pointed out, crossing her arms.

Oswald rolled his eyes, unable to keep himself from doing it. Not because she hadn't a point, but because he _knew_ she was right. A little hypocrisy in the night to ripple the waters of an oncoming storm, and yet, he was surprised to see that despite it, Sylvia appeared calmer. She looked at him with doleful eyes, of innocence that he'd not seen for years.

"With her dead, I can't find out who she was conspiring with, can I?"

"You can, but it'll be much more difficult."

Sylvia cocked her head to the side, saying, "Oz, how do you know how to do _any_ of this? This conspiracy, these wars…this _constant_ paranoia—it's driving me mad. I'm up to my ears in stress, and that's before the baby. I don't even know how to…"

Oswald took her hands in his and she startled at the romantic gesture; granted, he was always the romantic, but the sudden motion disarmed her.

"Worry about this…" Oswald said, moving her hands to her own stomach. "You let _me_ worry about everything else."

"Honey…"

"Trust me. Everything will be fine."

"You're saying that so I'm not fretting needlessly, right? You're not saying that just so you can go back to sleep, are you?" Sylvia asked with a little smile.

Oswald quirked a little smile of his own as he admitted, "Half-and-half, really."

He lied on his back. She did the same, then she turned on her side. Lying down as such, she patted the area of the bed that was in front of her.

"Come be my little spoon, Ozzie." Sylvia said; her voice was now calmer, and warm.

Oswald didn't need much coaxing. It was his favorite sleeping position, after all.

Author's Note: Phew! This is the longest chapter I've ever written, but it is probably one of my most favorite. Feel free to leave a comment if you like or didn't like. I like to know what the readers think:) Enjoy the next few chapters as I've been dishing them out!

**Chapter 15: Change**

Standing in front of the body-length mirror was Sylvia, who peered at her reflection with something of a 'meh' expression. She'd gone through three different outfits, trying to match it with her mood, but none seemed to strike her fancy. Frustrated, she pulled the straps and neckline of her dress over her head and threw it on the bed, frowning as she turned to the side, glancing at her mid-section in the mirror.

She cupped her hands over her belly button.

"Fucking bloated…" She murmured.

Then she poked her breasts through the padding.

She and Oswald were elated to know that they'd be having a baby—be it a son or daughter—and yet, with this, came some unbridled resentment that she hadn't anticipated when the inevitable began.

Her body was changing.

Her breasts were sometimes sore; her mid-section felt like it was a balloon almost always ready to pop. Thank _god_ the famous (or rather, _in_ famous) morning sickness hadn't started; and she hoped it never would.

Sylvia had bought all the baby books she could find, organizing them from month-to-month and the trimester with which it was correlated just to keep up with this anarchy happening within. And yet, it did nothing, really.

She woke up with a headache all the time, and it would take almost an hour before she felt like doing anything. Fatigue was a symptom, the books informed her. _Fatigue_ , indeed.

 _Knock, knock_.

The sound made her jump.

"What!" She called.

"It's me."

Sylvia smiled faintly when she heard Oswald's voice; its owner entered, slowly opening the door to see that she was neither dressed nor ready to go. Not even at the time they'd agreed upon. Seeing this was so, Oswald looked at her, slightly annoyed.

"You've been in here for three hours. What have you been doing?"

"Drowning in a sea of self-loathing," She answered sarcastically. "What have _you_ been doing?"

He started to make a smart comeback, but he recognized that tone anywhere. Seeing how she was staring at herself in the mirror, her hands on her belly as she measured her lack of baby bump, and yet…that dissatisfied look was more informative than if Sylvia had said anything, but for whatever reason the suppressed smile tugged on the corner on the corner of his mouth.

"My Pigeon is displeased. What's wrong?"

"The same thing that was wrong three days ago, the other day, yesterday, this morning, and _still_ is." She responded unsteadily. "Look at me! Do I look fat to you?"

Oswald stared at her as though he couldn't believe what he'd heard. After the shock had passed (only a second later), he cleared his throat uncomfortably. He put his cane on the bed, and from the comforter, he chose a dress that Sylvia had discarded the moment she had pulled it out of the closet.

Cocktail dress, a deep shade of violet, strapless.

"Well?" She prompted, looking at his reflection through the mirror. "Don't I?"

"You _don't_ look fat, Pigeon."

"That was a _lot_ of hesitation for a simple 'yes' or 'no' answer."

"I simply needed the time to contemplate the absurdity of your question. Personally, I think you look beautiful. Always have, always will."

"So you're saying that I'm beautiful, but I _also_ look fat?"

"Are these the 'mood swings' the authors were writing about?" He questioned as he handed the dress to her.

"My mood has nothing to do with the question."

"On a contrary, Pet. I think your question is starting to reflect your mood quite a bit."

"Do you really want to argue right now?"

"Trust me. The last thing I want to do is argue with you."

Sylvia looked at him pointedly, and he smiled at her encouragingly.

"Put this on." He indicated the dress.

"This color?" Sylvia's eyebrows raised inquisitively, glancing at the violet dress.

"I like you in this color."

"You like me in anything."

Oswald smiled tenderly, knowing she was correct: "Also, we still have to go by The Sirens."

"Yeah, so Barbara and Tabitha can mock me behind my back? How _wonderful_. Looking forward to it."

"I'm sensing a hostile edge to your tone."

"The hostility isn't meant for you." Sylvia muttered as she grumpily pulled the dress over her head and wiggled her hips as the material glided over them with mild resistance. "I'm just not feeling my best…"

Oswald smiled as he watched her straighten out the dress. It conformed to her figure all too perfectly. So perfect…he felt his body pining for her. For the moment, however, there was a call for a little self-control.

"I'm not even sure if I want to go," Sylvia mumbled.

"Don't you want to see how Barbara Kean spent your money?" He asked knowingly.

She glanced at him, almost guiltily.

With a subtle chuckle, Oswald wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into him. The chaste tug made her the bareness of her back rub against his suit, sending a small pleasurable tingle down her spine.

"She was released from Arkham and had little to nothing to her name…suddenly, almost _miraculously_ , dare I say, she has the acquisition to purchase land, and build a brand-new place from the ground up. And you didn't think I would find out the name of her generous benefactor?" Oswald said slyly.

Sylvia wriggled in his arms, but she grinned in spite of herself when he bestowed a soft kiss along her jaw line, to her ear.

"And here I was certain you thought so much more of me." He teased.

"Oh, but I _do—_ "

"I think you're losing your touch."

She turned in his arms, and hers snaked around his neck.

"I have a lot more cards hiding up my sleeves than you could possibly know, Penguin," Sylvia reassured with a cool tone. "Eventually, it works to my favor. Much like your little schemes seem to work for _you_."

"Most of my 'schemes' are harmless."

"Oh, yeah, like causing a war between Maroni and Falcone. So harmless."

"If you recall, it worked in _my_ favor."

"Mm-hmm, so you're worried that Barbara won't help me in the future?"

"Your generosity is unmatched, compared to the Waynes, Pigeon. Most people would see it as a charitable feat, even gracious." He said softly. "With people like Barbara…I'd be wary if I were you."

Sylvia kissed his nose, and said playfully, "Wary, I'll be, then. Just for you."

"Well, I'm glad we have that out of the way."

"Mm-hmm."

Oswald said with a smile, "Are you ready to go?"

"Let me get my shoes."

"I'll meet you downstairs."

"Fine, then." Sylvia said and she broke the link in her arms from his neck and moved to the closet to find her flats.

Oswald watched her aimlessly, a thoughtful look on his face, a small sly little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as she bent down at the waist, and pulled the shoes from inside the wardrobe. She nearly stumbled as she clumsily put one foot inside a ballerina flat.

She felt eyes on her. Sylvia looked at him curiously.

"What?"

He said innocently, "Nothing."

Sylvia grinned and it was her turn to blush.

**Chapter 16: The Sirens**

They were on their way to _The Sirens_. Sylvia sat in the driver's seat, comfortably taking the wheel, shifting the stick often as the traffic either came to a standstill, or passably continued with little interruption; there was no in-between.

In the passenger seat was Oswald, who surveyed the traffic with minimal fuss. Meanwhile Sylvia's hand that wasn't on the steering wheel occasionally held the gear shift, passively switching from one to the other depending on the irregular flow of traffic, Oswald inwardly smiled when that hand slowly rubbed along his thigh. Affectionate as ever.

Meanwhile, Butch took full privilege taking up the back seat. His pant legs were crossed at the ankle; the other part of him was leaning up against the other door while he read the newspaper, sometimes commenting on the section he was perusing.

"Stocks are rising." He noted aloud, thumbing the corner of the page with subtle interest. "Looks like it's going to be a good year this year."

"Looks that way," Sylvia said coolly. She muttered under her breath, "Until the 1% cash in their stocks and the market plummets again."

Oswald side-glanced her, hearing her comment, but he didn't bother to add to it. After all, wasn't she right?

"Weather's looking kind of drafty. High fifties on the weekend: time to take a walk in the park. Better bring an umbrella though; it's going to be a _rainy_ weekend."

"Butch," Oswald said patiently.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Do you have side job as a meteorologist that I'm currently not aware of?"

"Can't say I do."

"Then your comments about the weather are likely wasted on me."

He glanced over his shoulder at Butch, who smiled apologetically.

Sylvia shrugged, saying, "If it hails, let me know, though."

"Will do!" Butch chirped from behind her seat.

"Don't encourage him." Oswald muttered.

" _Now,_ who's in a mood," Sylvia teased, smirking at him.

He didn't acknowledge her fair-weather taunt with a comment of his own, knowing that if he wasn't careful, he could find himself dealing with a side of Sylvia that he neither had the patience nor the temper to handle.

Sylvia parallel parked neatly against the curb, grinning widely as she stepped out of the car, noticing her fine lines.

"Victor Zsasz would be proud," She sighed serenely. She looked at Butch, adding, "The last time I tried parallel parking, he was in the car with me; I had to hot wire every car on the block so I could move them—I didn't want to accidentally ram into any of their license plates."

"And what happened to the cars?"

Sylvia rubbed her neck consciously.

"They uh…well, they rolled down a hill—how about we go inside, huh?"

Butch shook his head, easily amused, while Oswald followed her in; his hand held the cane, enabling him to walk a little easier; the other rested gently on Sylvia's lower back.

She looked around and was pleasantly surprised with what she saw.

Music was pretty good; decorations were out of sight, and the patrons were flowing like beer at an Irish Stag party. An oval-like bar was constructed in the center where two lively, beautiful barmaids were serving customers drinks. Chandeliers, sun-like orbs glittered from the ceiling. A band of women were absorbed in the white of the spot lights.

"Wow…this is pretty nice." Sylvia muttered.

"That was my thought too," Butch agreed.

"I meant to tell you: I'm sorry about throwing you into the wall the other day."

"It's fine."

"Did I scare you, by chance?"

"Honestly, Liv…you scare me _all_ the time. Just more times than others." He confessed nervously. He side-stepped her, patting her arm, before he continued to stroll forward with Oswald, completely moving into the club, looking around.

Sylvia minded the other patrons for a second before joining their trio.

Barbara stood at the oval-like bar, contending with her patrons and bartenders. Seeing the three of them in her peripheral vision, she turned and greeted them jovially: "Ozzie...Butch…"

She and Oswald did the Euro-Kiss thing. Barbara greeted Butch with a Cheshire grin while she looked at Sylvia with the same grin, although more or less inclined.

"Hey, Girlfriend." Barbara said, winking at her.

"Hi, Babs."

"What a nice surprise," She said encouragingly.

"Forgive me for not coming sooner," Oswald returned, smiling. "The place looks _marvelous_. Wouldn't you say so, Butch?"

The latter said, almost nervously, "Yeah, the place looks great."

And like a snap, Barbara said serenely, "I imagine you're here about your offer. To let us shelter under your umbrella."

"I only want what's best for you."

"I appreciate the thought. But we're big girls. We can take care of ourselves. _Can't_ we."

Sylvia frowned and almost immediately, Oswald grabbed her wrist closest to him: it was an instant order: 'No. Violence.' And just so, Butch, Oswald, and Sylvia turned their heads to see Tabitha Galavan walking up from behind them, gliding between the two gentlemen.

"Sure, we can," She said slyly, smirking. She put an arm on Barbara's shoulder, just outlandishly proving a point that she and the lovely blonde were an item.

It had little to no effect on the married couple, but it seemed to poke Butch in a sore spot.

Sylvia glanced at Oswald, watching him. It seemed to take all of his cool and calm to keep himself from lashing out at the woman who'd not even a year ago had lain slaughter to his mother. While he seemed more inclined to maintain some type of civility, Sylvia's desire to fillet the bitch had little subtlety.

"Hey, Butch," Tabitha said softly, smiling at him.

"Hey!" He said too readily. "Hey…H-How you doin'?"

"Doing well. Taking care of yourself?"

"Yeah, yeah…so, uh…So, so how you doin'?"

Oswald scoffed, "You already asked her that."

Butch cleared his throat and with an attempt to retain some type of dignity, said encouragingly, "You guys should take him up on his offer. Gotham's full of rough characters…You look great, by the way."

Oswald declined to see this go on much further so he patted Butch's shoulder and said quietly, "Why don't you go wait over there. Please."

Defeated, Butch sighed and he moved to the bar for a drink. Sylvia watched him empathetically.

"Poor bunny," Barbara sympathized with a contrary smile. "Break-ups are hard."

"I offered to kill you," Oswald said calmly, looking at Tabitha. (Sylvia grinned widely.) "I thought it would raise his spirits. It would be my pleasure seeing as how you _murdered my mother_." And suddenly, just as the passion had risen from his voice, calm suddenly became his master, and he continued with a light chuckle, "But he is nursing some foolish hope that you two will get back together. 'Love'."

Tabitha nearly snarled, "You can take your offer and stick it up your—"

Barbara pulled Tabitha back with an insistent tug, while Oswald (an inner pride blooming) still had some type of restraint on Sylvia, although she looked just as eager to engage in warfare as the Tigress. For a second, it appeared that the two would start a cat fight, but after such a time, it seemed as though that Barbara and Oswald had found a nice lead-and-pull with both women.

"We'll think about it, Ozzie," Barbara placated.

Tabitha let out a sigh as though gaining some patience back while Sylvia still leered at her from beside her husband.

Oswald smiled, although it didn't reach his eyes, as he said, "Fine. But that's not the only reason I am here. Spread the word. I want Fish Mooney. And I will give a million dollars to whoever can bring her to me. Dead…or alive…" He looked directly at Tabitha, spoken to her as a subtle threat. "Chopped into pieces. Either way: I want her."

Barbara nodded and said kindly, "I'll let my people know."

Oswald looked at Sylvia, who gave him a tender kiss before he moved forward to speak with Butch. She glanced after him before turning to Barbara and Tabitha.

"I like what you did with the place." She said tenderly, looking at the ceiling. "Chandeliers." She smiled at Barbara: "Nice touch."

"I'm so glad you approve," Tabitha scoffed.

Barbara glared at her: "Be _nice_ , Tabby. Liv did a great thing for us, you know."

"Yeah, be _nice_." Sylvia taunted, sneering at her. "I shouldn't have made Barbara ask for my help. I should've had _you_ do it."

"That's not asking a lot."

"I didn't ask for enough."

"Liv…" Barbara warned.

Sylvia smirked at her.

"Really, though. Beautiful place. Pretty lights, good music…I'm not too enthusiastic about the people you have on your stage, but I'm a little biased, you know."

"Yeah, I suppose if you're not busy, you could always come and sing for a night here."

Tabitha looked absolutely appalled by the idea, but Barbara didn't give her in any acknowledgement.

If just to make Tabitha more inclined to stab someone, Sylvia languidly caressed Barbara's face and then, with little regard to who was watching, pressed her lips against hers and kissed her deeply. Sylvia felt Barbara's tongue rub against hers, and that was all she needed. Just as quickly as the kiss had started, it ended. The result: Tabitha glared between Barbara and Sylvia; treason written all over her face.

Barbara smiled at Sylvia.

"I didn't think you had it in you."

Sylvia winked.

She turned to Tabitha: "Do you feel that, Tabs, huh? That feeling of betrayal? Keep that feeling, store it for another day. Because one day, you'll get what's coming to you in a way you will not even _begin_ to comprehend until it's looking you right in the fucking face."

She blew a kiss to Barbara, then spontaneously left the club with Butch and Oswald watching her, more or less surprised.

Sylvia sat in the driver's seat, plugging the key into the ignition. When Oswald closed the door, sitting in the passenger side, he looked at her expectantly.

"Would you mind telling me what _that_ was about?" He demanded calmly, although he seemed like he was holding back one massive temper tantrum.

"I just wanted to see Tabitha look as distraught as she's made Butch feel," Sylvia explained smoothly. Butch smiled appreciatively at her from the backseat. "If I can't punch her, maim or kill her, I'll do what I can to make her miserable. Besides, don't act like you weren't just a _little_ intrigued when you saw me kissing Barbara."

Butch leaned forward and uttered, "I know _I_ was intrigued."

"Shut up, Butch." Oswald snapped, although his voice was insistently low.

However, Sylvia _had_ made a point. He felt angry, seeing her kiss _anyone_ else, but was he not just the slightest intrigued? Oswald did see how furious Tabitha looked, and that was even more thrilling than what he'd hoped to get from just visiting _The Sirens_.

By the time they were back at the mansion, his reasons for being angry with Sylvia were pretty much nil.

**Chapter 17: Calm My Storm**

"I talked to Cat the other day." Ivy mumbled, looking up from her hamburger to peer at Sylvia, who was sipping on a cup of tea.

For the moment, they were settled at the same hamburger joint that they had been to the last time, sitting across from each other in a booth.

It wasn't so early in the morning to be called 'dawn', but between getting pancakes or a grilled patty, the child chose the latter and so while Ivy was having a Quarter pounder with cheese, fries, coleslaw, and a milkshake, Sylvia had opted out in favor for tea; her stomach was queasy.

"Did you, now." Sylvia shook a few packets of sugar into her cup.

"Yeah…"

"How'd that go?"

"Well, she asked where I was."

"Does she normally have a habit of asking where you've been?"

"Not really, but she came to the Flea the other night and I wasn't there."

"Was she worried?" She asked sincerely.

"I think so."

"What'd you tell her?"

"'I went for a walk'." Ivy replied, quirking a small smile which disappeared almost immediately. "She knows something, but I don't know _what_ she knows."

"And you won't ask her what she knows?"

"Because I know _she_ 's doing something too."

"Like what?"

Ivy scoffed, "'Top Secret', she says. I don't know why she won't tell me."

"Maybe she's looking after your best interests."

"Or maybe she doesn't want to share." She pouted, throwing a French fry into the pool of ketchup that was starting to drown the rest of the potato pioneers.

Sylvia cocked her head to the side.

"Do you envy her?"

"What?"

"That she gets caught up in something every week. She finds gigs all the time, it seems. Doesn't invite you to any of them. Does that make you feel a certain way?"

"She gives me money," Ivy said pathetically. "She lets me follow her around, you know. It gives me something to do, stops me from being bored."

"I feel like you'd benefit from having a garden." Sylvia noted lazily, sitting back in her seat.

The queasiness of her stomach made a low rumble, and it gave way to a wave of nausea which made her exhale slowly.

Ivy noticed: "Are you okay, Lark?"

"I'm great."

"Lark…"

"Yeah?"

"How come you talk to me?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's not news. _You_ know. The cops killed my dad; my mom died right after."

"You're right. It's not news. Everyone knows that by now."

"Your _brother_ killed my dad, you know." Ivy said coolly. A soft glare lifted from her plate to Sylvia. "You're not scared that I might wanna do something about that?"

Sylvia looked at her. For a moment—if only just for half of a second—she wondered whether Ivy was threatening her. Subtle, perhaps…but even then.

" _Would_ you want to do something about it?" Sylvia challenged softly.

"Maybe. If the opportunity came."

Sylvia clicked her tongue thoughtfully before she straightened in her seat. She reached into the pocket of her blue denim jeans and held out a metal piece on the table. After pressing a button, a blade shot out from its nest; Ivy jumped from the sudden motion.

"Here's your chance. Your 'opportunity'." Sylvia offered, placing it in front of her. She rolled her sleeves up to her elbows, resting her forearms on the table, her wrists out in the open. "If you want your pound of flesh, Ms. Pepper. Take it."

Ivy grimaced.

"Lark…I—"

"Open an artery," She encouraged. "Go on…"

Ivy licked her lips, the bottom one quivered. Slowly, she put down her hamburger, wiped her hands clean of the grease and patty oil, and even with slower grace, took the knife in her hand. Her eyes stared down at the freckled, porcelain-white complexion that covered Sylvia's arms. What determination might have flickered suddenly left when Ivy spotted the light, white, slightly raised lines that had already scarred her radials.

Sylvia smiled instantly when Ivy sat back down, her back lined against the seat. Reluctantly, Ivy placed the knife down on the table, pushing it towards her.

"You wanted to, didn't you?"

"How come…? Why did you ask if…?" Ivy mumbled, unable to formulate her words properly. "If you knew…"

Sensing what she was wanting to know, Sylvia unrolled her sleeves back to their original resting place, sheathed the blade back in its nest, and then pocketed the switchblade inside her jeans with little pause.

"It's not really anything against you. Nothing you could have done would have justified anything what the police—or the world—has done to you. There's nothing you could have done that I've not already done myself, or someone else has done. The only justification you'd have gotten from hurting me would have been short-lived. If you want _real_ satisfaction, you have to go towards the source."

"So, you're saying," Ivy muttered, "I'd have to actually—"

"Go after the man that killed your father, yes. And since you brought it up, _my_ brother didn't shoot Mario. His _partner_ did. Regardless, the men responsible for your father's death aren't even the people who shot him. His right to live was revoked the moment Falcone, and the rest of them, decided to frame your father. It wasn't until after they did the job that the police went after them."

Ivy said unhappily, "How come you're telling me this _now_."

"Closure isn't always satisfying, is it? But at least, now, you get to sleep, knowing just _exactly_ who the person was that ruined your family."

"How do I go after Falcone?"

"You don't." Sylvia said finally, after taking a sip from her tea. "Falcone retired a long time ago. In your position, there's nothing much else you can do except to move forward: Look for opportunities, be kind to your friends…"

"My friends are mostly plants."

"Well, I'm sure if you are good to them, they will be kind to you, huh."

Ivy nodded. Somehow, that was the most comforting thing she'd ever heard. After a moment, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"Do people know that I was involved with her death?"

Sylvia raised her eyebrows: "Who—Delilah?"

"Yeah."

"No one knows so naturally, _everyone_ knows. I killed her. You weren't involved, and nowhere near the crime when it happened." She said lazily. "The body was gone by daylight. Delilah was forgettable. It's really not that hard to make anyone disappear in Gotham."

"Could you make yourself disappear?"

"Is that your way of telling me to leave?"

Ivy giggled, "No!"

Sylvia smirked.

"Where Cat is concerned," She continued while Ivy's laugh sobered. "If she tells you to stay away, then I'd say that's probably a safe bet that you need to stay away. She seems to be looking out for you, even if she does keep a few secrets for herself."

Ivy nodded, taking her advice into account.

Sylvia patted her hand: "If you'll excuse me, I have to run. I have an appointment."

"Going to the baby doctor?"

"Yes, I am. They're checking on my progress."

"When do you find out if it's a boy or girl?"

"Some twenty weeks, so it'll be some time."

"You'll tell me, right?"

Sylvia nodded, saying, " _Yes,_ I'll tell you."

The visit to the baby doctor was uneventful, which was probably the best outcome one could hope for. Waiting for the check-in, waiting to be called, waiting for the doctor to come in, waiting for the 'you're doing well' comment, and then waiting for the next appointment to be scheduled. What came out of it was the gynecologist suggesting that Sylvia take some prenatal vitamins, get a jump start on that pre-baby care, and that was basically it.

Sylvia sat in the driver's seat; Oswald sat beside her.

"Well, _that_ was fun." Sylvia sighed tiredly as she started the car, and they were heading back to the mansion.

"It's not an amusement park ride, Pigeon."

"I didn't expect it to be like a fucking _roller coaster_ but at least give me a Ferris Wheel view," Sylvia said snidely, glaring at the sudden halt of traffic around them. She honked the horn, poked her head out of the window, and shouted, "Can you go any slower, jackass!"

Sylvia rolled up her window, seething.

Oswald noticed.

"Are you sure you don't want me to drive?" He asked carefully.

"I'm _sure_. I'm just irritated because these _assholes_ don't have a fucking clue when the light is green! TODAY, fuckers! Go!" Sylvia screamed, and she slammed her hand on the blaring horn once again.

"Will you calm down for a _second_?"

"Well, I can't help it! These people don't know how to fucking _drive_! I'm about to just ram my foot up their asses. DRIVE, ASSHOLES!"

When the traffic started moving, she said wryly, "Oh look, see—they actually listened!"

About two miles from the mansion, Oswald's nerves were strung so tightly from his wife's screaming, he wondered if he'd be pardoned for losing his temper. She was just so moody today—the easy-going trip to the doctor hadn't lifted her spirits at all.

The moment the car was parked, he crawled out of the passenger seat, and opened the door for her. Sylvia took his hand and she got out of the car, looking at him grumpily.

"Pigeon."

" _What_."

"Nothing." Oswald retracted; he'd rather not slap the bull on the back just yet, fearing he'd get the horns anytime soon.

Sylvia stormed inside the mansion, letting everyone know that she was pissed off. After the bedroom door slammed shut, Gabe and Butch glanced at Oswald inquisitively.

His only explanation came out simply: "Mood swings."

A few hours later, Sylvia hadn't come out of the bedroom. That was a little worrisome.

Oswald gently tapped his knuckles on the door, waiting for any sort of acknowledgement (be it furious or otherwise), but none came. When he entered silently, he noticed that she was in bed, lying on her back, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. She glanced down, seeing him.

"Are you feeling better?" Oswald asked.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I don't. I'm not angry, if that's what you're asking."

Oswald sighed, not bothering to enunciate that this _was_ his primary concern. He took off his gloves and dress jacket, leaving his waist coat on, but he loosened his tie. After he took off his shoes, he scooted into the bed, his back against the headboard. Sylvia glanced at him suspiciously, but didn't inquire as to what he was doing.

"Pigeon."

"What."

"Sit up."

"Just let me lie here, okay?"

"Sit up, please."

Sylvia grumbled, "Okay, _fine_. I don't know why you…" The rest of her words were lost to him as she said them under her breath.

As she did as he asked, Oswald gently held her arms and just as tenderly pulled her back to him. She tried to wriggle away from his touch, but he wasn't letting her go just yet. Resigned to see what he was up to, Sylvia allowed him to adjust where he needed.

He moved his legs so she lied between them; her head rested on his chest, her shoulders on his stomach. He released her arms, smiling when they flopped down on the bed like fish. She was looking up at the ceiling, an odd but comical expression on her face.

She giggled, "Oswald, _what_ are you doing?"

And then his intentions became clear.

He started massaging her shoulders, the tight muscles along her neck and collar bone. Oswald smiled to himself when he heard her stifled, contented sigh. For a moment, they stayed like this.

Sylvia looked up at him, an apology written all over her face.

"I guess I _was_ a little angry. I'm sorry I snapped at you." She said remorsefully. "The visit to the doctor was probably better than we could have hoped."

He murmured a soft 'mmm' in acknowledgement but said nothing else.

Oswald gingerly wrapped his hands around her throat, his thumbs inclined and rubbing concentric circles just above her tensed jaw, beneath her ears.

"Will you say something?" Sylvia asked.

"What do you _want_ me to say?"

"Anything."

"'Anything'." He repeated.

"Smart ass." Sylvia giggled, smiling.

She sat up, then turned to face him, crawling between his knees, and sitting on her own feet.

"Look at me."

"I am looking at you."

"No. I mean _really_ look at me," Sylvia urged. "What do you see?"

For a moment, she looked worried. As though his answer would either send her to heavenly song or deep into the pit of depression.

His hand caressed her face, brushing a lock of ginger hair behind her ear. He said truthfully, "I see you."

"And I, you." Sylvia said sweetly, her anxiety breaking apart and her facial features, relaxed. "I have something of a favor—if you call it that."

"Sylvia, you're my wife. We don't do favors for each other."

"Then just do something for me, okay?"

"What is it?"

"The next time I'm angry like that, kiss me."

"I believe that would be a death sentence for me." Oswald said calmly.

"Please, just do it."

"Pigeon—"

"Everyone else pisses me off," Sylvia persuaded, gesturing behind her with a tinge of irritation. "If they tell me to calm down, I want to pop their head off their shoulders like a fucking dandelion. When _you_ talk to me—it's just different. I might pop off at you, but I don't feel so angry…it's like you have the key to my mind, a way of getting in that no other person has privy to."

"Sylvia, you have strength that of which I still find unbelievable, and I've known no other person to possess your feat for negotiation."

"So, I'm strong. So, I'm good at what I do…I'm not strong in everything, and my temper—as you know—is still needing work… These mood swings coming out of nowhere…I don't know how to navigate through them. I was so angry, and I don't even know why I was angry. I can't do this on my own…You weather my temper; you calm my storm. No matter how strong I am or weaponized I become, I _still_ need that."

Her voice was almost pleading. Her eyes reflected the same emotion.

"I can't deny you much of anything anymore, can I?" Oswald resigned, although he smiled a little.

"You _could_. You just don't." She said mischievously. "Kiss me."

And like any other time, Oswald gave her what she wanted with little hesitation. He couldn't say 'no' to her, ever. He couldn't deny her much of anything, indeed. But neither could she deny him.

**Chapter 18: Platonic**

It was in the middle of the afternoon. Traffic wasn't substantially horrific. However, with the waver of Sylvia's edging temper, it seemed like too long of a drive to Arkham Asylum. While the woman glared at every pedestrian walking slower than molasses over cross walks, and at the taxis which made abrupt halts in order to pick up their new fares—or anything in general—Oswald kept his hands on the little gift box, which rested humbly on his lap.

Sylvia had been quite taken to be his chauffeur on many more than one occasion. While she shifted restlessly in her seat, Oswald glanced out the window, uncertain as to whether he'd wanted her to come along or not. As crazy as Gotham had become (and with Fish Mooney out and about), he had been on the fence about her company…still, it had been _she_ who had insisted. She was his unofficial body guard; with the magnitude of her physical strength and the unholy temper that wavered as her hormones grew, Sylvia was an unstoppable force…period. So, he naturally allowed her to do what she wanted.

But this trip wasn't like any others they'd taken together.

It was not their first visit to the asylum as guests, but it _was_ the first time in which they both were visiting the same patient: Edward Nygma.

Events of the past had made things more than awkward: Oswald's knowledge of the fact that Ed had feelings for his wife, for one…as well as knowing that at one-point (and perhaps another that he imagined) Ed had also kissed Sylvia.

He had decidedly forgiven this transgression for the very reason that everyone (excluding Sylvia) was an idiot and Edward was the only competent intellectual to whom Oswald could confide his deepest worries.

Sylvia had her own hang ups where Ed was concerned: he had framed her brother for killing Galavan, a crime that she had committed—well, at least when Galavan died the first time. It wasn't until Ed had redeemed himself by picking the lock to Hugo Strange's mysterious basement of experiments (ultimately having saved her life as well as the lives of everyone in Gotham) that Sylvia forgave him for his betrayal.

To say that Oswald and Sylvia's friendship with Edward Nygma was anything but simple was an understatement. Perhaps it was this complexity that made the trio's friendship that much more unique, and worth having.

"What is that?" She asked impatiently, her eyes casting to the side for a glimpse of the little cube, which was elegantly wrapped in black and gold paper with a matching, black ribbon tied neatly in a bow.

"A gift."

"For Ed?"

"Yes."

"As long as it's not something that can be used as a weapon," Sylvia muttered, glaring at the traffic ahead of her.

"Do you think Ed would suddenly become violent?" Oswald asked coolly, ignoring her waspish tone.

"No, but ever since the hand-stabbing incident with Fish, I'd be wary of any gifts you give to _anyone_." She glanced at him shortly before checking both lanes, signaling, and then steadily gliding to the right to change her lane.

"Including you?"

" _Including_ me," Sylvia conceded, smirking at him.

The crooked grin on her face lifted his spirits. While the days had continued, Sylvia's mood swings had become almost intolerable. Her grumpy attitude that had wavered whilst in their drive had become that much apparent, and Oswald was relieved to see that he could make her smile.

"How was he?" He asked lightly, as he looked at her. "When you last saw him?"

"Miserable," Sylvia answered; she emitted a low, frustrated sigh as she tapped her breaks. "Of _course,_ I have to get stuck behind a bus. That's just _great_ …" She sighed deeply, closing her eyes for a moment, before she continued calmly: "Ed looked miserable."

"What did you two discuss?"

"The weather, Hugo Strange, the monsters in Gotham, stock market values," She listed, and smiled sheepishly at him when Oswald looked a little more than suspicious. "What do you _think_ we discussed, honey?"

"A little more than just that."

"Your jealousy is showing."

Oswald rolled his eyes, muttering, "I'm not jealous."

"You're seething."

"I am not seething."

To his dismay, Sylvia nodded as though she was placating him. But he couldn't help it.

When he thought of Sylvia and Edward together, all he could see was the two of them engaged in some animalistic, kissing frenzy. Yes, he'd decidedly overlooked it…Ed was overtly apologetic the last time he had visited him. But the thought was still there, wasn't it? And yet, he'd seen Sylvia kiss Barbara Kean right in front of him, and while he was bothered by it, per se, he wasn't nearly driven to insanity with the image. Perhaps it was knowing that Sylvia hadn't ever felt anything more than appeal towards Barbara whereas she'd previously admitted to having had romantic feelings for his male friend.

Either way, Oswald grumpily leaned back in his seat, avoiding her gaze.

Sylvia clicked her tongue thoughtfully as she watched the taxis swivel through the lanes, dropping off their fares; the bus in front of them hadn't moved at all in the past five minutes. Her nostrils flared as she steadily inhaled and exhaled deeply, maintaining her composure.

"Are you still attracted to him?"

Sylvia startled at the question, glancing at him.

"I've told you before. I'm not."

"Not even a little?"

"What little attraction I had to him disappeared when I found out what he did to Jim, Oswald." Sylvia reiterated patiently, although she was close to losing her patience; they'd had this conversation several times now, haven't they! "I only see him as a friend."

" _Only_ as a friend?"

"Are you _sure_ you're not jealous?"

"I'm not."

"I think you are."

"I said I'm not!" Oswald snapped.

Sylvia raised her eyebrows at him, pointing out that he had just proven her point with his frustrated outburst. She didn't acknowledge her victory with any sort of gloating remark, knowing that if she pushed Oswald too much, the two of them would be in another heated argument before the day was out. Their first argument about whether toast was a good option for breakfast was _enough_ for one day. Another idiotic quarrel was just too much.

"So…" She said softly, tapping her fingernails along the leather steering wheel. "What do you want to do for dinner?"

Oswald noted her tone, how soft and soothing it was.

"You're changing the subject."

"Seeing as you're still moody about what happened between us—"

"—I'm not moody. You're telling me I'm jealous, when I've told you _several_ times that I am not. How many times are we going to have this conversation?"

"Just admit that you are and we're done," Sylvia said curtly. "I _know_ how you act when you're jealous, Oz. Everything about the way you're acting says it all. You ask me what Ed and I talk about and you're suspicious because we don't talk about relationships or about you? What the hell do you call that!"

Oswald rolled his eyes.

"Here we go—rehashing the same argument…"

"We're only friend. He knows where I stand, and he respects that. I know where _I_ stand, and I've told you _several_ times that you have nothing to worry about. I told you before that if I ever thought about cheating on you, you'd be the first to know. Remember me saying that?"

"I recall you saying something to that affect, yes," Oswald admitted, frowning at her.

The silence in the car was most unbearable. He felt as though he might suffocate from the grip of it. As Sylvia parked the car in front of the asylum, she was about to get out but Oswald took her wrist, and she stopped moving. She met his eyes, those cerulean orbs boring into his.

"I love you, Pigeon." He said remorsefully.

"I love you too," Sylvia returned. Her frown disappeared, and morphed into a soft smile. "And I love _only_ you."

Oswald closed his eyes as she touched his face with the gentle caress of her palm, the softness of her skin, her warmth. He felt her lips touch his, kissing him. He returned it in such a way that was passionate, that even if he couldn't apologize properly, he could convey it in a single gesture.

When the kiss naturally broke, Sylvia looked at him endearingly.

"Are we okay?" She whispered.

"Yes. Forgive me for thinking badly of you, I…"

"We all get a little insecure."

He smiled when she said what he was afraid to say. Yes, he was insecure. More than he feared anything else, Oswald was afraid that another man (or a woman) would see Sylvia as he saw her and she would leave him. He doubted that he could take a heart break like that—not in this lifetime or the next.

Oswald moved out of the car, taking the little gift box with him. Sylvia met him in front of the car.

"You're doing better in traffic," He cared to note as they walked together through the gate.

"It's an illusion," Sylvia responded, chuckling to herself. "I had to literally bite my tongue in order to not scream at anyone."

She poked her tongue out, and Oswald grimaced when he saw that she had done what she said—teeth marks on her tongue, a little blood, but at least she hadn't bitten through the muscle completely.

"I'll drive on the way back."

"My tongue will heal." Sylvia said carelessly, opening the double doors so that she and Oswald walked in.

Their silence came as they entered the hospital. For Sylvia, it was a matter of revisiting the place that gave her a hard time. For Oswald, it was like coming back to Hell.

He could hear the screams through the walls, even though silence was the only thing that greeted them in the hallways. It became a white noise after some time.

The guards that greeted them weren't fond of seeing either of them, but they acknowledged Oswald and Sylvia as guests. Both were given a guest pass and seated inside a room where the patient would be escorted through the door and seated by a guard.

In the quiet room, Sylvia looked around, unable to sit as she was restless on a daily basis. Oswald minded her prowling feet; the occasional click of her heels as she paced slowly around the room. When the door opened, both Sylvia and Oswald met the appearance of the correctional guard, who pulled Edward Nygma into the clearing, and forcibly sat him down. The guard returned to his post just in front of the door.

At first neither Sylvia nor the other two gentlemen spoke. While they were seated in front of each other, Sylvia stood in her own little world, minding the steel-like doors, the golden light that hid behind the translucent, shell-like wall, and the guard who remained still as he looked at all three of them with more spite than what might have been humanely possible.

"Do you want a chair?" The guard asked as he met her eyes with an unhinged gaze of his own.

"No. I prefer to stand." Sylvia replied just as coolly. "The question is do _you_ want a chair?"

"I don't need one."

"I didn't say that."

"You did, you just asked—"

"Whether you 'want' something or you 'need' it are two separate things." Sylvia returned smartly; she approached him and his entire body became as stiff as a statue. "For instance, I _want_ you to leave."

"I'm expected to remain here throughout the visit," the guard insisted although he appeared to want less than that. "It's hospital policy."

"'No patient left behind' kind of thing?"

"Something like that."

"No one's dying here tonight. If you want to go get a cup of coffee, I'll make sure nothing happens. You have my word."

Ed and Oswald glanced at each other knowingly: Sylvia didn't care whether the guard did as she wanted. She was just having a bit of fun. While she toyed with the guard, Oswald placed the little gift box in front of Ed, who peered at it curiously, lifting his eyes to him in response.

Wordlessly, Ed unwrapped it and saw that it was a box. Colorful designs on each side, glossy.

"It's a puzzle." Oswald said, smiling widely. "The trick is opening it. The man at the store said that it is one of the most difficult ever made. People pass it down, unsolved, for generations. A mathematician once went mad trying to…"

As he spoke, Ed fiddled with the puzzle like a Rubik's cube and within seconds, it unfolded itself and lied flat on the table. Oswald was slightly taken aback, but smiled at his friend's ingenuity, before saying, "Well…yes, there you go!"

There was a slight click of the door, after which both Ed and Oswald glanced in Sylvia's direction. The guard was gone, and she was alone. She grinned broadly at the gentlemen before prowling over to the table and sitting in a chair that the guard had only moments ago placed beside Oswald, thinking that she'd sit in it. He had not been mistaken.

"Where did the guard go?" Ed asked.

"I told him to get a cup of coffee," Sylvia responded nonchalantly. "I said I would make sure nothing bad would happen. Weren't you there when I said all of this?"

"And he believed you?"

"I can be very persuasive. I just hate when people stand over me. Like a teacher just _hovering_. Gets on my nerves."

"Huh."

Sylvia glanced at the object sitting in front of him and said curiously, "Oz, wasn't that—"

"He solved it," Oswald answered, smiling at her.

"How do you put it back together?" She questioned, taking the 'box' and placing it in front of her. She started fiddling with it, and soon became absorbed in its mechanics.

"It was a lovely thought," Ed commented.

"And did you get the biscuits?" Oswald asked, concerned. "And the sweater? I know how drafty the rooms can be—"

"—Mr. Penguin—"

"—Oswald—"

"—When I think of how I treated you—"

"—Stop…"

"Why are you being so kind to me?" Ed asked in spite of Oswald's command.

Sylvia said distractedly as she fiddled with the toy, "Fuck this thing…how do you… _what_ …"

Oswald and Ed, again, minded Sylvia's presence, glancing at each other with identical expressions of amusement. However, he answered his question thoughtfully: "Talking with you these past few months, I don't know how I would have gotten by otherwise. Fish out there planning who-knows-what. Me, being surrounded by morons and lunatics."

Ed lifted his eyes up to the ceiling and muttered, "I know the feeling."

"Why didn't she kill me when she had the chance?" Oswald pressed worriedly. "I was powerless. She must have a larger goal; I _need_ to know what she is doing."

"I'd like to know that as well." She started stacking the pieces as though they were a deck of cards until they fell out ungracefully, adding, "And how to put this fucking thing back together. This thing didn't come with a pamphlet of directions, did it?"

Ed took the box that was sitting in front of Sylvia and with little indication as to how he knew, he put the box together in five easy steps then placed the box in front of her again. Sylvia gave him a look before she smiled.

"As for Fish," Ed said calmly, "do you really need to know what she's planning?"

"She's out for blood."

"Because Oswald pushed her off a building…"

"Well, _that_ , and I inadvertently killed her mother back in the old days," She explained flippantly. "For all I knew, Fish always said her mother was dead. How was I to know that her mother sung at her club…"

"But you killed her?"

"Without a doubt."

"So, she's after the both of you."

"That's what it looks like," Sylvia sighed, sitting back in her seat. "Personally, I'd like to know just what she's planning..."

"Do you, though?" Ed questioned, and Oswald and Sylvia looked at him, both taken aback by his query.

Silently, Ed tore the gift-wrapping paper in half and then rested his hands under the table so neither of them could see what he was doing. As subtle as his motion was, Sylvia grinned.

"When Alexander encountered the Gordian knot, a knot so complex that no one had been unable to untangle it…he just removed his sword, and cut it in two," Ed narrated with a soft chuckle. "Details can be distracting. Sometimes…a simple solution is best. So, no matter what she is planning, just remember" (Ed revealed his creation by placing an origami penguin in front of Oswald) "Penguins eat _fish_."

Oswald grinned at the little origami with a child's wonder.

"Basically, you're telling us 'don't worry'." She said quietly, getting to her feet.

"Sit back down." Oswald said patiently.

"I'm _tired_ of sitting. I sit at home, I sit in the car, I sit here—I'm _tired_ of sitting. I'm tired of being tired of sitting…"

"The doctor said—"

"Fuck what the doctor says." Sylvia growled, tapping the table sharply with her hand as she scooted out her chair and started padding the floor restlessly.

Ed glanced between the two of them with an unfamiliar expression which made Sylvia chuckle. Rarely did this man ever appear confused but confusion was all over his face.

"Why can't she stand?" Ed asked, glancing at Oswald. "I've seen her lift a human over her head before and…"

"I'm pregnant." Sylvia explained effortlessly. "Doctor's orders—but given that these doctors work in Gotham, I fail to see the practicality in following their command."

"Oh!" Ed responded, startled. He blinked and said encouragingly, "Well, congratulations. That's good news, isn't it?"

"It's maddening is what it is."

Oswald looked at both Ed and Sylvia, watching the interaction with his subtle suspicion. However, as he observed their conversation, he noticed a few things: Ed made certain not to get within a foot of Sylvia's company, including touching her—maybe that was the consideration on his friend's part…but there was certainly a platonic element there.

"Do you know the gender?" Ed asked curiously.

"That won't be for some time." Sylvia returned, touching her belly thoughtfully. "But we will love it regardless, won't we, Oz?"

Oswald said with a smile, "Yes, we will."

"I'm really happy for you, Liv." Ed returned sincerely. "I'd give you a hug but…the guards don't prefer contact."

"What's contact _really_."

Oswald watched Ed and Sylvia hug, but despite the sudden hot flash of his own unbridled possession when it came to Sylvia and other men, he found that this feeling of jealousy that had been present in the car was no longer presiding. Sylvia conversed with Ed in the same fashion that she did with any of his staff, including Victor Zsasz…when comparing that friendship with this one, Oswald concluded that what Sylvia had said was true: At least where Sylvia was concerned, she had _no_ romantic feelings towards Ed.

Even if Ed had the same for her, Oswald trusted her.

"Sylvia."

"Yes, sweetheart?"

Sylvia turned to Oswald expectantly, and he said with a softness only he could project, "Would you mind giving us a moment?"

"Sure. I'm going to get a coke."

She touched Ed's shoulder; the latter smiled at her, and said, "It was great to see you again, Liv."

"You too, Ed. Take care!"

He watched her leave.

And now there were two.

Oswald sat in front of Ed, who looked at him with a subtle expectation. They were going to acknowledge the elephant in the room, in spite of its awkward platitude.

"I know what you're going to ask."

"As intelligent as your mind is, I wouldn't be surprised." Oswald returned, smiling in spite of himself. "You _do_ understand why I need to, though, don't you?"

Ed raised a hand as though he was taking the oath in court, saying, "I promise, Oswald. I have no ill intentions towards Sylvia."

"Well, in all retrospect, I didn't expect any 'ill' intentions. The opposite, actually."

"What happened between us—it was a mistake. I have always admired Sylvia for many reasons, and her loyalty is one of them. I can't tell you how sorry I am for what I did, but as I've told her, it won't happen again."

"And I forgive you," Oswald reassured. He smiled again, saying, "It's not like I _don't_ know…when she's on stage, people look at her all the time. It happens so often…She attracts many people…"

"I won't pretend that I don't like her. She's nice. She's been a friend to me more than most people." He cleared his throat, phasing over his fondness for Sylvia. "You won't have to worry about me. There's no 'us'. Especially after I framed her brother."

"Yes, she's told me that more than once."

"We _are_ just friends."

Oswald nodded, letting that news settle. He'd heard it from Sylvia several times, more than enough times, actually. But there was something comforting about hearing it from Ed as well. And he was obviously still apologetic for what happened, especially now as they had become friends.

"So, she managed to get the guard to leave," Ed said conversationally, looking behind him.

"Yes, she has a passion for negotiation."

"She certainly has her way of getting things done."

"That, she does."

"Did she really kill Fish's mother?"

"It appears that way."

"How did she do that per chance?"

"Bullet wound."

"And she didn't know that was her?"

"Apparently not. Sylvia can be impulsive."

"Especially when it comes to the people she cares about. It's actually quite scary, if you think about it. How quick she is about avenging her people."

"It can be intimidating," Oswald said thoughtfully. "One of our staff departed for his own reasons. She has taken it personally."

"Who was it?"

"Mr. Bell."

"The _butler_?"

"Yes, that was my reaction too. Mr. Bell formed a paternal-like bond with Sylvia and when he left so suddenly, she had something of a negative response."

"No one was hurt, I hope."

"She picked Butch up over her head and threw him into the wall, punched _me_ in the face—we had to sedate her with tranquilizer darts. It was quite the spectacle. And yet, when she found out what happened to her mother, she had no response what so ever. She's unpredictable."

"Her mother?"

"Mrs. Gordon, yes."

"What happened to _her_?"

Oswald leaned forward and uttered quietly, "Suicide."

Ed's eyebrows furrowed together as he said softly, "That's unfortunate."

"I thought the same."

"How is she?"

"I doubt she cares." Oswald said, shrugging carelessly.

"Well, there it is. She only has violent impulses fit for the people she cares about."

"Yes, it appears that way."

"I can't imagine what she would do if she lost _you_."

Oswald found that statement a little too close to home but he didn't comment on it. While Oswald considered himself to be on the same level of intellect as his friend, he felt that he was a lot more perceptive than Ed. For a fact, Oswald was certain that Ed was pointing out that while Sylvia _did_ care for her friend, she ultimately cared for _him_ more. And that made Oswald grin modestly.

After all, didn't Sylvia say she loved only him?

That was a comforting thought, indeed. And it made Oswald feel less envious of whatever romantic feelings Ed might have for his wife, if any did remain.

"I suspect you'll be coming by for another visit?" Ed asked, mindful that their time was nearly up—the guards weren't particular about anything but time was always their butt-clenching X factor.

Oswald stood, and Ed did the same.

"Of course. Until then, my friend."

Ed shook it. And for a minute, Ed didn't feel like a prisoner. He had felt like his own man, just meeting with a friend over a business proposition. It only lasted a few more minutes and it was gone when the same guard returned to put him back in his cell, although Ed noticed that the guard was less grumpy now that he had his coffee. The guard simply opened his door, and Ed was free to walk in instead of being thrown forward as the guard might have done on any other occasion. Perhaps that was Sylvia's doing. Maybe not…Ed preferred to think that it was.

**Chapter 19: Delilah's Accomplice**

Back at her club, _Lean on Vee_ , Sylvia was serving her people alongside Demetri Byrd, who had steadily become an expert in throwing unruly regulars out when the time called for it. Now that Delilah was out of the picture, Sylvia was down one bartender, so naturally, she fit herself in the spot. While the customers looked too honored to be served a drink by their own Patron, Demetri noticed how relaxed his boss appeared, considering this could be a thankless job, sometimes.

As Sylvia handed one of her rougher Regulars a beer, Demetri leaned his right side against the bar, watching her with a subtle expression of amusement and something else.

"What're you smiling at?" Sylvia asked.

"You."

"Why?"

"You like this job, don't you?"

"Like it, maybe not, but I've done this job long enough—it fits me like a glove," Sylvia returned flatly. She wiped the bar counter down with a new wash cloth, glancing its polished surface, before crossing her arms over her chest and looking at him plainly. "Back in the old days, I used to be a barmaid and a waitress."

"Do you miss the old days?"

"Which ones?"

Demetri smiled modestly: "When you were a bartender."

"Working under Fish, I didn't mind it so much. Working under Maroni—it was fun at first, but it became intolerable after a time."

Demetri's expression changed from that of amusement to one of puzzlement as he said slowly, "But I thought you hated Fish."

"She and I were like a mother-daughter team until the point when she hurt my husband and tried to kill me more than once. Even now, the mere thought of her gives me some bittersweet feelings—I almost miss her… _almost_."

Demetri shifted uneasily on his feet, like something was bothering him. Sylvia glanced him over.

"Are you alright, kid?" She asked carefully.

"Pretty good, yeah, why?"

"Just asking. You look a little nervous."

"I'm not nervous—I mean, your people make me nervous, but you know…you don't."

Demetri glanced at Dagger and Chilly who were guarding the doors with a leery gaze.

"Hm."

"Why? Does that bother you?"

"I don't care if I make you nervous. However," Sylvia said slowly, every syllable being enunciated with accentuated suspicion, "you've been acting _very_ odd since Delilah left."

"You mean 'was killed'."

"Yes, that's what I meant. I didn't think I had to say it though for you to understand."

"Delilah was one of the older ones," Demetri said quietly. "She had a place here, Miss Sylvia. A way of being almost permanent. One night, she leaves the bar, and then she's dead the next day. That'd make anyone nervous."

A brief moment passed between them during which Sylvia stared at him for the longest time, and Demetri was shifting his weight interchangeably from one foot to the other, like he couldn't stay in one place for too long.

"Is something wrong?" He asked uncertainly.

Sylvia clicked her tongue and said calmly, "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. But you know…Delilah wasn't alone in trying to undermine me, Demetri. She had an accomplice, a partner, if you will. Someone close to her, someone like a boyfriend, maybe just a friend—who knows. Due to my mistakable impulse, I failed to see the full picture. That was until someone pointed it out to me. I could have found out through her who her co-conspirator was, but I didn't."

Demetri frowned as he lowered his head submissively, muttering, "I don't mean any disrespect, Miss Sylvia, but why are you telling me this?"

"You're perceptive, enough. Smart enough, even. Maybe you can tell _me_."

"You suspect someone on the inside?"

"Yes. I do. That's not a comforting thought for me, is it?"

"I'd say that isn't good business for anyone, Ma'am."

"You got that fucking right."

"So how do you find out if there's a second person?"

"No 'if'. I _know_ Delilah had someone else," Sylvia stated calmly as she made a few more drinks for the customers who'd sauntered up to the counter for seconds.

She greeted them with a warm smile, but the moment they turned their backs, her frustrated hard smile returned as she looked at Demetri, who managed a small smile of his own, however worrisome and complex.

"It can be anyone. Someone close enough to Delilah; she felt comfortable enough talking to them about me, about getting rid of me at least…Tell me, Demetri. Do _you_ have anyone in mind?"

"I don't, Ma'am."

"No one you suspect that would want to take me on?"

"I can't imagine…"

"You'd be surprised." Sylvia said, cracking a genuine grin. "Perhaps I'm being paranoid, huh?"

"I wouldn't blame you for it."

"No? Why?"

"You have a lot on your plate," Demetri explained as he gave a drink to another customer, turning to her only after they left. "You've got this place to run, not to mention doing whatever it is you do with the meetings and the Underworld. It's a lot."

"So I have your sympathy, is that it?"

"Well, I wouldn't call it that. But yeah. And my respect."

Sylvia eyed him carefully, trying to size him up.

"Perhaps I'm thinking of this all wrong."

"Meaning?"

"I'm trying to find flaws within my own ranks," Sylvia muttered, rubbing her face. "It's driving me insane…perhaps Delilah _knew_ she was being watched, so she made up a story, a way of making my spy _think_ she had someone else on the phone. It'd distract me from the bigger picture, enough for someone else who was waiting patiently by the side lines to come in and stab me in the back while I'm running circles trying to find someone who's not even real…just made up."

"That's crazy," Demetri exclaimed, raising his eyebrows.

"But it's doable. In Gotham, everything is."

"Delilah was smart but not _that_ smart."

Sylvia looked at him pointedly saying, "You knew her _that_ well, did you?"

"Well enough, I'd think. We worked together frequently, Miss Sylvia."

"And yet, you believe you know her so well not to come up with some convoluted plan to overthrow me?"

"Maybe I'm just perceptive—you said so yourself."

Sylvia nodded, considering this. She'd told him that before, hadn't she? Demetri was quiet, often times, soft spoken. In fact, he reminded her a great deal of Oswald back when he was serving Fish her umbrella. Oswald had behaved like a submissive sycophant around her, but—as Fish learned—there was a whole other side to him. Sylvia looked at Demetri for the longest time, a nerve being poked too often that her mind was turning gears, and the suspicion that tugged on her gut was more than she could bear.

"Come with me." Sylvia ordered dryly.

Startled by her command, Demetri flinched. Seeing as how he could do little to distract her, Demetri nodded. Like a man walking to his death, he followed her up the stairs to her office. After he entered, Sylvia closed the door behind her and she gestured to the seat where he slowly sat. Sylvia leaned her backside against the front edge of her desk, her arms crossed over her chest as she peered down at him from heavy eyelids, staring at him so hard that Demetri was starting to sweat under her icy gaze.

"We're going to put some honesty between us," Sylvia said calmly, although her tone was sharper than any time he'd listened to her.

"Yes, Ma'am, but—"

"You've been behaving strangely, ever since Delilah was killed. You've been walking on egg shells around me, and even then, you've been giving me compliments out of the wazoo, agreeing with me on whatever I say, so one has to wonder: _What_ is your deal?"

"Deal? I have none."

"Not with me, at least."

"Ma'am?"

She leaned forward, her hands steadily gripping both arms of Demetri's chair; the latter leaned back, intimidated by her strong presence.

"Were you close to Delilah?"

"Well…"

"Answer the fucking question."

"Ma'am, we were close, but I don't—"

"—Close enough to be lovers, I bet."

"Not lovers…"

"Cut the crap. _You're_ the second person," Sylvia breathed, her eyes glowering dangerously at him. "Aren't you, Demetri?"

"Ma'am, you've got this _all_ wrong, I swear to god—"

She straightened and immediately backhanded him. Demetri gasped, grabbing his face from where she'd slapped him; a red handprint flush on his right cheek. He slowly looked at her, innocent in appearance, stricken with uncertainty and fear.

"You _are_ Delilah's accomplice, aren't you?"

"Miss Sylvia, I'm not!"

"Tell me why you've been acting so fucking strange then!" Sylvia snapped, glaring at him. "Tell me why you've been _so_ eager to learn the ropes! Tell me why Dagger and Chilly—both of them—have come to me and said that you've been asking questions about the business—"

He held up his hands and whimpered, "M-Miss Sylvia, I swear—I swear to you, I'm _not_ working against you!"

"You're just working for me, right?"

"Yes!"

"Mm-hmm…" She responded, unconvinced. "I've grown tired of these betrayals. Every day it's _something_. Every week, it's _someone_. It's really exhausting. And just with Delilah, I didn't expect you to…After all I've done for you, you would betray me like this."

She walked around so she stood behind her desk, opening a drawer.

Fearful that she was searching for the means to end his life, Demetri suddenly fell out of the chair and then crawled on his hands and knees over to her; he clasped his hands together, and looked up at her, pleading.

"Miss Sylvia…Miss Sylvia, _please_. **Please** believe me—look, look! I confess, I admit that Delilah and I were close, but we were just friends, just _friends—_ nothing else. I love you too much, too much to do anything to you, Miss Sylvia, you have to see that! You have to!"

Sylvia watched him, and while her hard expression didn't shift in the slightest degree, he definitely pulled on her heart strings. A man who was on his knees, begging for her forgiveness for a mistake that he allegedly never made—she felt so heartless, and yet, hadn't she been down this road so many times already?

"Prove to me that it wasn't you."

"How can I?"

"That's for _you_ to figure out. Otherwise," She said harshly, "I'm going to take this gun" (She removed the weapon from the drawer through which she'd searched its contents, and pulled it out of its sheath) "and shoot you in the fucking face. _Just_ like I did with Delilah. And no one will be the wiser."

"Oh god—Miss Sylvia, please! Please, please, I'll do anything! Anything, just tell me what I need to do and I'll do it."

Sylvia stared at him, seeing the tears fleetingly leave his eyes and dampen his cheeks. That look of desperation…

"If you asked it of me," Demetri all but stammered, "I-I will do anything, anything—you've done so much for me—"

"And that's what makes this so fucking hard, you know." Sylvia sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "My spy heard Delilah—the bitch mentioned that I'd done so much for her as well…and so much for the other person too. I pulled you out of that dingy coffee shop, gave you a place to stay, a better job, and this is what it's coming down to. Every person I help comes back and bites me in the ass, and I'm getting pretty sick of getting stabbed in the back for being a good person. That's what makes _this_ situation so much harder, you know."

Sylvia opened the barrel, placed a single round in it, and then snapped it shut with the flick of her wrist. Demetri's eyes widened, but that didn't deter him from trying to appeal to her motherly side.

"Miss Sylvia, _please_." He whispered. His voice slowly gave out as the image of his brains splattered on the wall was becoming much too real. "Please…god, no…fuck, please tell me what I must do to prove that I'm not disloyal. If given the chance, I'd open any artery that you would request of me, I would—god, I would—please just don't kill me!"

Sylvia reached behind her, grabbing a switchblade from the back pocket of her jeans; she pressed the button, the blade shot out of its metal crevice, and she placed it on the desk pointedly—so certain that he was only trying to get her to lower her guard.

"You _are_ Delilah's accomplice. Aren't you, Demetri? You _are_ the person she was working with, planning to uproot all that I've built." Sylvia said knowingly, staring him down painfully. "You can deny it _all_ you want, pretend or what-have-you, but we _both_ know it. Don't we?"

"Miss Sylvia…I'm sorry…"

"Ah!"

She frowned; her eyes widened dangerously and she placed the gun to his head.

"See…he confesses, finally."

"Miss Sylvia, please…we didn't— _I_ was wrong, I didn't realize—I was…I'm sorry, I'm _so_ sorry…Please…"

"I took you in, treated you like a son, and what did—oh my god, now I see why Fish was furious…" She clicked the gun so that the safety was back on, and she added, "I'm having a major De Ja Vu over here…Well…this certainly has given me more respect for the bitch."

Demetri stared up at her, uncertain as to what would happen.

"Sylvia—"

"I know, you're sorry, blah, blah, blah. I've heard this before. It doesn't change the facts though, does it? You betrayed me, and now, I must kill you."

"Delilah pulled the wool over my eyes, Miss Sylvia—now that she's gone, I see things differently."

"If that's true, that's good, but what's to stop you from having the wool pulled over your eyes a second time?" She remarked unhappily. "Once a traitor, always a traitor."

"I'm still useful to you!"

"How?"

"I'm smart—"

"If you were 'smart', you'd have never turned against me."

"I can still be valuable."

"How."

It was a question as Demetri heard it. She was skeptical, and her current mood was revealed to him in all but name: voice, expression, and the subtle click as she cocked the hammer of the gun and was on the verge of killing just another traitor.

"Delilah was power-hungry! She was going to go after anyone and everyone who had power—not just you, but-but Penguin, and anyone else! She was gonna do whatever she could—whatever was _necessary—_ I didn't believe in that, I didn't want that, I tried to stop her…"

"You had every chance to come to me," Sylvia responded curtly; her harsh tone made Demetri flinch. "But you didn't! What does that make _you_!"

"I'm **begging** you…please forgive me, please! I was stupid—a moron, but I know now…Please, what must I do to earn your forgiveness, to earn a place back in—"

"You _know_ what you have to do." She said heatedly, gesturing to the switchblade sitting on her desk. "As fickle as your loyalty is, I doubt you've ever…"

Demetri stood, taking her by surprise, but he reached over, grabbed the blade, and slit his right forearm from the inner elbow down to his radial. He screamed bloody murder the entire time; blood splattered onto his face and onto Sylvia once he hit the artery.

"Holy _shit_!"

Sylvia snatched the knife from him, still in shock. Quickly, the man became incoherent.

"Fuck _this_ , man!" She squeaked.

She grabbed her cell phone, bent down to Demetri as he fell over onto the floor, and dialed 9-1-1. The ambulance came in a hot second.

"What's your relationship to the patient?" The driver questioned.

"I'm his manager, now _go_."

That seemed to be enough.

Sylvia sat in the ambulance, alongside Demetri whose arm was wrapped in heavy gauze; he underwent a great deal of intravenous pain killers. Meanwhile, the extra EMTs were asking personal questions like whether or not he was allergic to penicillin or any other medication that she was aware of, and what was his blood type. Then the patient was shoved through the hospital feet first through Gotham General's Emergency Room on a gurney, roughly passed from the ER doctor to the ER surgeon and surgery was done to stitch his arm back together before he lost enough blood.

Standing out of the surgery post-operative room, Sylvia nibbled on the fingernail of her pinky.

"Fuck me…" She mumbled.

And here she was, in yet another complex predicament.

On one hand: Demetri confessed to being Delilah's known conspirator, the accessory to what would have been her downfall and—if Delilah had gotten her way—her own and Oswald's demise. She would have been more than justified in killing him.

On the second: Demetri had done what neither Sylvia nor Oswald would have done to prove a loyalty so fierce just moments after betrayal. He _literally_ opened an artery for her, on the spot. And he seemed more than apologetic, after having his mind warped by someone as manipulative as Delilah.

And here she was. She could kill him, or…give him a second chance.

But giving him a second chance would mean turning her back to him just so he could what, one day actually do what Delilah had failed to accomplish? It was so risky, _so_ risky…it'd be one thing if Sylvia had only herself to look after but now, that was no longer the case, was it?

Sylvia put her hands on her stomach. Her hormones were all over the place, sure—the bloating, the nausea, her aversion for foods she once loved—all of it were signs of her body slowly adjusting to holding a human inside. And while Sylvia couldn't _feel_ the baby inside—kicking, camping, watching TV, what have you—Sylvia was more than aware that everything in her life would be centered around it.

"It's okay," She whispered, rubbing her stomach. "It's okay, Little One. Mommy's not going to let anyone harm you…At this point though, I'd say Demetri's okay. Wouldn't you agree?" There was no significant movement, but at this point, the docs said she wouldn't be feeling much of anything…still, a small push in the right direction would have been more than reassuring. Even if it _was_ by only a baby.

Sylvia sat in the waiting room, contemplating her decision.

 _To kill or not to kill Demetri Byrd, that's the question_.

"Getting all Shakespearean up in here," She muttered, rubbing her temples with her index fingers.

"Sylvia?"

That was the doctor's voice. She looked up at him expectantly, standing to her feet.

"You're here for Mr. Byrd, correct?"

"Correct. How is he?"

"He's doing fine. Recovery might take a few weeks, but he's awake if you want to talk to him."

"I'd like to, yes."

"Very well, follow me, please."

Sylvia did as the doctor ordered and she walked behind him, noticing the small delivery rooms of the hospital as well as the nurseries they passed. Curious, she peeked through the window, smiling when a little baby closest to her moved in the slightest bit. A glass window separated them, but the baby's little black hairs and shut eyelids made her grin regardless.

 _I'll be having one of those_ , she thought.

It somehow made her situation more complex than simple. As she entered through the doorway of Demetri's hospital room, the doctor explained a few things such as the IV fluids, the medication sitting on the counter, and the bandages in the garbage can, all of which Sylvia immediately understood.

The doctor excused himself when his pager started going off. Sylvia pulled the curtain around the bed, choosing privacy over publicity. Absent-mindedly, she sat on the edge of Demetri's bed; the latter opened his eyes, startled when he saw who she was, and he nearly fell out of bed with the realization.

"Easy! Easy," Sylvia cooed.

"What are you doing here? Why did they let you in?"

"I've been here often enough. Before you call the nurse," She cautioned as Demetri's thumb was on the call button. "I want to tell you…I'm not going to kill you."

"You—wait, you're not?"

"I'm not."

"Why?"

"Mm, now _you're_ suspicious of _me."_ She chuckled at the irony as she patted him on the shoulder. "Not the best feeling, is it?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well, not to worry. I'm leaving here in a few minutes—doctor's appointment, that sort of thing, but I just stayed to make sure you were okay, got out of surgery alright with little inconvenience…"

Demetri withdrew his hand from the call button, although he continued watching her carefully. He said just as cautiously, "So you…you're _not_ going to kill me for what I did…for what Delilah…"

"You betrayed me, Demetri. _That_ is never going to change. However, you did something that not even _I_ would have done in your circumstances and, well, to say the least, I'm fucking impressed. I underestimated you, definitely, so I'm thinking Delilah did too."

"Believe me. Had I known what she was going to do, I'd have **never** gone along with it."

"And what exactly did she have planned?"

"Burning everything of yours to the ground." He said unhappily. "Taking everything that you've ever have and making it hers."

"And what changed your mind?"

"Ma'am?"

"You heard me. Why the change of heart?"

"At first…at first it was because you just killed her. You cared so much for her, I thought."

"I did care for her, a great deal. But what I don't care for are people who lie to me, treat me like a friend and then go behind my back. If knowing that I will kill whomever I need to in order to keep my happiness scared you into your right mind, I'm happy that it did. I've only ever given one other person a second chance, Demetri. And even now, I still don't completely trust him—trust is hard to find in Gotham, you know."

"I do."

"What you did in the office though," She said quietly, "that's something that not a lot of people would have done. And not so adamantly either."

Demetri smiled modestly: "Yeah, well…"

Sylvia touched his shoulder and said lightly, "Get well, get better, I'll see you back at work, okay?"

"Yeah…yeah."

"Good man."

She began to leave but he caught her with a soft sound. She turned to him curiously.

"Miss Sylvia, I really _am_ sorry for what we were about to do." Demetri uttered sincerely. "It was a low-down thing, going behind your back. We were stupid…naive…"

"You made a mistake. We're human. It happens. Just make sure that you don't make the same mistake twice."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"I'll come by again and see how you're doing."

"Thank you…see you later."

Sylvia nodded, gave him a soft smile, and then she left.

**Chapter 20: Move, Baby, Move**

Oswald stood outside his mansion in what could be seen as his backyard. In the night time, it looked like something from a horror movie, but in the day, it was breathtakingly beautiful. Lush green grass, a cluster of trees that led one to the open thickness of the forest yonder. The sun was hidden by the abundance of marshmallow, puffy clouds. It was a rare treat to see a sunny-like day in Gotham…most of the time, it seemed to look as though it had either suffered a monsoon or it was just bout to rain.

The hunt for Fish Mooney hadn't quite lost its appeal; however, after talking with Ed, worrying over someone as elusive as her was taking time out of his schedule—time that he didn't have. He'd been anticipating her capture for so long and so intensely; he'd even missed Sylvia's appointment with the baby doctor. Allegedly, it had gone well as Sylvia informed him over the phone…but Oswald could detect her passive-aggression effortlessly.

She was upset that he'd missed the appointment, but there was something else in her tone. ' _The baby's doing fine, **just** so you know…not that you care…'_ she had said. Lord, he'd have to be an ignoramus to not hear the resentment!

Normally, he could take her wasp-like candor, especially after having missed the appointment. Normally, Sylvia was understanding of his schedule, the way Gotham's Underworld's problems affected both his personal life as well as his business. But perhaps he'd taken that for granted…? Then again, he wasn't so unaffected by the pregnancy either, was he?

While Sylvia carried his child, Oswald noticed a change in himself as well. Mood swings weren't new to him, but his own irritability was just off the charts. He read nearly more than half the books Sylvia had picked up from the libraries and book stores about women's pregnancy, child stages, labor, but only found one thing to explain his sleep deprivation and physical exhaustion: Couvade Syndrome. It sounded _ridiculous_ when he read that men could experience pregnancy symptoms: insomnia, mood swings— _that_ was all him, right on the paper.

Still…

Reading those books had given him a headache and thinking on his own problems made him just a little resentful towards Sylvia. Not that it was her fault, right? They both made the baby—hell, he was _there_ for it…but this wasn't something he'd ever thought he had to experience!

He was out of his depth, that was for sure!

A breath of fresh air would do the trick, he thought. It'd clear his head, get him out of his worry zone and when Sylvia came home, they'd have an open discussion about what the next step would be in their journey together. Or so he felt.

In the time that passed, Sylvia didn't come home as quickly as he'd expected. Instead, she was two hours late getting back. And she hadn't even called.

The sun was nearly set. When she met him on the veranda, Oswald was seated in a patio chair, tie loosened, collar relaxed, and he drank a cup of tea with mild contentment. She came up the patio stairs with a distant look on her face, one that he'd seen often in the past few days, but nothing that worried him too badly. She was silent, even as she pulled a lawn chair up to him and sat across from him.

"You're late."

"So, I am."

"Are you all right?"

"Peachy." Sylvia answered, crossing her arms. "How was your day?"

"Busy. Yours?"

"I found out who Delilah was in cahoots with."

Oswald suddenly looked at her, surprised. There goes his care-free feeling that had only been in place for a few minutes. And he'd been happily basking in it only for a second.

Worried, he sat up slightly, placing the cup of tea on the end table beside him.

"And?"

"It was Demetri."

"Oh." He scoffed. "I see—the man you picked up off the streets."

"The same."

"Is he dead?"

"No, but he's in the hospital."

"Was it your doing?"

"For once, it was not." Sylvia said smoothly, smiling in spite of the situation. "He did it to himself. He, quite literally, took out an artery to prove that he was still loyal to me. However, he did confess to working with Delilah, an attempt to overthrow me and possibly end my life as well as yours."

Oswald looked at her for a moment, at first pleased with her answer and yet, quite surprised, then confused.

Slowly, he said, "So…let me get this straight, _just_ so I know I'm not misunderstanding you by any means."

"Sure…"

"This homeless person you picked off the streets—like a stray—starts working for you. You trust this person enough to take a job within your establishment. Out of nowhere, seemingly, he decides to take up arms with _another_ one of your associates who betrays you, _admits_ to having done the same, and yet…He's still alive."

"That's right."

Oswald gestured to her.

"That is unacceptable."

"So, you'd prefer that I killed him?"

"I prefer that you eliminate any chance of him trying to kill _you_." He resounded unhappily, gesturing to her more emphatically. "You have, literally, an army at your disposal, a team that is deadlier than the GCPD could ever hope to train, and yet, you keep this stray alive for _what_ reason exactly?"

"You're being condescending, you know that, don't you?"

"I'm just trying to understand your motive for keeping this man alive."

"He said he didn't realize what Delilah's end game is."

"And you believe him?"

"I believe he was misguided, yes, I do. Delilah was manipulative—"

"—How manipulative could she be, she was a _waitress—"_

" ** _I_** was a waitress before, hello!" Sylvia snapped, glaring at him. She stood, adding, "And Delilah fooled _me_ too, just so we're clear. She pretended she was innocent, afraid—"

"So, all it takes is for someone to plea and cry and it's all over; is that what you're telling me?"

"She was _scared_ , Oswald! She wanted to go to the doctor to find out if she was pregnant; it's a scary thing doing it alone for the first time after an uncomfortable experience— _not that you would know_!"

"She was _lying_ , Sylvia. I figured that it would have been made obvious to you."

"Well, _obviously,_ it wasn't." Sylvia responded hotly. "You want to make this about my naivety, then fine—be my fucking guest, but I'll be damned if I'm going to stand here and let you talk down to me like I'm some simpleton who doesn't do shit about a betrayal when I see one. Because frankly, you know _I_ did. She's dead now, buried five feet under the ground or whatever those people did with her after taking everything off her corpse. She's dead and rotting—that's enough for me."

"And what about this Demetri?" Oswald questioned, standing as well.

"What about him?"

"He's doing the same thing Delilah did. And you're letting him fool you!"

"I'm giving him a second chance! He carved his arm open to prove a point—I think that warrants a _little_ credit, don't you think?"

Oswald rolled his eyes, pressed two fingers over the bridge of his nose, and muttered, "This is unacceptable."

"If you want to go the hospital and do the deed yourself, be my guest. He's in ICU, room 240. _Have at it_." Sylvia said dryly. "Delilah was a bad apple—I won't deny that. But Demetri has something that not a lot of our people possess and _that's_ humility, **and** the balls to back it up. He was ready to die just to prove that he was loyal to me. Now, I don't know about you, but there's no way I would have done that for anyone unless I was being fucking serious about it. How could he lie after that?"

"You have no idea how much danger you're putting our child through, do you?"

Sylvia stared at him before saying dangerously, "I'm going to give you _five_ seconds to take **all** of that back."

"Demetri is going to be trouble, and you know it."

"He's also going to make one hell of an ally, but you don't see it."

"Perhaps I should go to the hospital, pay him a visit."

"Then _go_!" Sylvia snipped, motioning harshly in that direction. "For fuck's sake, _go_. Kill him, maim him, do whatever the fuck you want, Oswald—I told you, _be my guest_. But I think it's some fucking excuse. You've been going after Fish this entire fucking time with no results, so when Demetri shows his true colors, you see it as an opportunity to do something about it because it's the only thing you **can** do."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"You can't do a goddamn thing about anything or anyone!" She said starkly. "You're trying to keep me safe, but you can only do so much! You won't allow me to go to the meetings, fearing that people are going to notice that I'm starting to show. I've not gone on any contracts with Zsasz because _you_ think someone's going to one-up me in some gun toting battle, even though I've proven myself more than capable _several_ times in the past! You're naturally protective of me—more than ever since Gertrud passed away: I get it, and I understand that, but it's starting to suffocate me, Oz!"

Oswald stared at her, taking all of it in but not really knowing just how to respond to all of what she said.

"I'm trying to…" He began, but he wasn't sure what to say or how to convey what he wanted.

Sylvia sat down, her hands on her belly rubbing in concentric circles in consolation. Oswald noticed, and he watched her curiously. She suddenly smiled in spite of their argument, and it made him more curious.

"What? What's wrong?" He asked uncertainly.

Sylvia looked up at him.

"Come here."

He did as she asked and he watched her with growing interest as she pointed to the left side of her stomach. She guided his hand there, and when he poked the soft smooth ball of her stomach, the little bulge that had been seated inside of her womb suddenly disappeared as though the baby had felt it and had wriggled away. Sylvia put his hand on the other side; Amused, Oswald poked her again and the baby quickly moved to the other side.

"Fascinating." Oswald murmured.

"A little escape artist," Sylvia said quietly, smiling inwardly as Oswald poked the other side so the baby wriggled away again.

"I'd say so."

"It only took a few months. The doctor said that in the next few weeks, we may get to hear the heartbeat. I'd hope you come along with me on that visit."

Oswald nodded in agreement, then he felt a little guilty for snapping at her.

"Sylvia," He said gently. "You realize that I'm not trying to be overbearing…Don't you?"

"I know you're not." She reassured, now that her temper was diminished. "But, sweetheart" (She folded his hand in between her palms) "you need to realize that I'm not someone who can be easily caged. I _need_ my freedom. I need to be able to do what I want, when I want. Gotham is Gotham, remember?"

"Having someone like Demetri prowling about has not made it any easier, Pet."

"Then talk to him. If it will give you peace of mind, I insist."

"You really do believe he has changed, don't you?"

"I believe he's on that path. Currently, I'm still developing that trust—so for the time being, you can count that I won't be left alone with him anytime soon."

"Now, _that_ is a comforting thought." He said, smiling. "When is the next appointment?"

"Next Friday."

"I'll be there. I promise."

"Good." Sylvia returned, grinning. "Maybe we'll even find out if it's going to be a boy or girl. I can finally start finding some cute little onesies."

Oswald made a sound and she said knowingly, "Oh don't give me that look! You're going to be looking at baby clothes more than _me_."

He said nothing but he couldn't deny that she was probably right.

**Chapter 21: Another One Bites The Dust**

Sylvia sat adjacent to Oswald at the end of the dining table. The housekeeper, Olga, had prepared a dinner fit for three people as Sylvia requested and once the dinner had been completely set out, Sylvia had encouraged her to take a plate of her own and eat it wherever she found most fitting. Olga could understand what Sylvia was saying, but responding to her only in small adequate phrases ("Da") was all that was needed. When the maid/cook left the dining room, Oswald and Sylvia were beside themselves, eating in peace and quiet.

By no means was the silence uncomfortable. In fact, between the two of them, the silence was gratifying and most welcome. From the morning when Sylvia had discovered Demetri's betrayal, to getting him admitted to the hospital, going to the baby doctor appointment, coming back and after the argument that she and Oswald had only a few hours ago settled, it had been a long day for her. Even as they sat, it was only six-thirty in the evening, so the day was still not yet over.

"I think Grace took Olga for granted," She noted aloud after she finished eating the meat loaf with the ketchup paste.

Oswald looked at her, momentarily stumped by her sudden observation: "I'm sorry?"

"Your stepmother. Grace?"

Slightly embarrassed that he'd momentarily forgotten just to whom Sylvia was referring, he smiled in spite of himself and replied, "Yes, she has a flair for cooking, doesn't she?"

"Does she have any family?"

"Grace?"

"No. _Olga_."

"Oh! I'm not sure."

Sylvia giggled, "So easily distracted; your mind is all over the place, mister."

"I'm sorry. It's been a long day."

Sylvia frowned when her cell phone started to ring and she commented, "Apparently, not long enough."

She leaned ever so lightly to the right so she could get her phone out from the back pocket of her pants. When she saw who was calling, she rolled her eyes and answered it: "Barbara?"

"That's _my_ name, honey."

"What do you want?"

"Ooh, you sound tense. I sure hope I didn't interrupt anything!"

"It's fine," Sylvia placed her fork on her plate. Suddenly, she'd lost her appetite. "What's up?"

Oswald minded her from where he sat, watching her protectively.

"You might wanna head over here. Some loser came over here, tried to stiff us—I think he's in pretty bad shape. Don't know if it's one of yours, or—"

"He wouldn't be one of _mine_." Sylvia retorted coolly, placing the phone between her ear and the top of her shoulder. "If he was one of _my_ people, you would know."

"Ooh, _that's_ provocative."

"Is he injured?"

"Quite."

"Did you stab him?"

"Well, he hit me in the face, so naturally…you _know_ me, girlfriend. Do the math."

"Is Tabitha fine?"

"She's good—thanks for asking."

"I didn't care if she was alive or dead either way, but I know how much she means to you…for whatever reason."

"That's _so_ sweet. I'll tell her that."

"Don't bother. I can go there and tell her myself." Sylvia returned dryly. "What does the guy want?"

"He thinks we built shit on _his_ territory, won't stop talking about it…"

"So, it's a business dispute, then."

"Seems like it, doesn't it?"

"And you're sure it can't be settled by you _lovely_ ladies."

"Boy, I think I _did_ interrupt something. Your apathy is just all over the place, girlfriend."

Sylvia sighed, "Fine. We'll be there."

"Cool beans. See you later, baby." Barbara returned, and she made a swift ' _mwah_ ' sound right after hanging up.

Oswald crossed his arms on the table, his plate of unfinished dinner forgotten the moment he heard Tabitha's name; his appetite skipped over him. When he saw Sylvia put her phone down, looking less than enthusiastic, he waited for her to talk. And she did.

"That was Barbara."

"And what did Ms. Kean want?"

"Some guy came over, tried to intimidate her and Tabitha, squeeze them for money. The club's on their territory, so now they're having a quarrel about profits and whatever else they have going on." Sylvia told him unhappily. She drank the last of her water, adding, "And here I was thinking we would have a quiet dinner for a change."

"You should know better than that, Pet." Oswald sighed, getting to his feet. He stopped shortly in front of Sylvia so he leaned down, kissed her forehead, and added lovingly, "However, I appreciate your optimism."

"Mm. That was my realist coming out. _Optimistically_ , we could let them sweat a little longer and have a little romp session, if you catch my drift," Sylvia hinted, smirking up at him as she leaned back in her chair and carefully lifted her foot up between his legs and gave his package a little nudge.

Oswald smiled at her in return; as well, his face blushed a nice shade of pink before he cleared his throat, all business-like. He lifted his cane and the end of it lightly tapped her ankle bone with a slight reprimand.

Sylvia shrugged, saying, "All work and no play today. Poor baby", lowering her foot back to the ground.

When he didn't let up, she shrugged again and then stood. He watched her take the plates into the kitchen; when she came back, she was pocketing a Glock between the waistband of her jeans and her hip.

"Wanna bring Butch?" Sylvia asked.

"Might as well."

"BUTCH!"

Oswald jumped when he heard her scream. Like a dog being whistled to the surrounding area, Butch responded to the summons, almost too readily. He appeared as though he'd been waiting just behind the closed doors for anything to happen.

"Hiya, Butchy." Sylvia said, grinning at him. "How's the mallet?"

Butch chuckled sarcastically, "Aren't you just funny. What's up?"

"Joy ride, darling."

Butch and Oswald followed her to the car. Pointedly, she took the driver's seat, leaving Oswald to occupy the passenger's while Butch happily crawled into the back, taking up the two seats once more. Oswald closed his door, looking at Sylvia momentarily as she fixed her hair in the rearview mirror.

"How are you feeling?" Oswald asked her.

"Frisky, but otherwise, peachy keen, jelly bean. How are _you_ feeling."

Oswald didn't respond to her statement verbally but he did offer her a modest smile.

Flattered by how often she was making passes at him, it was hard not to be tempted by her. When they had first started dating three years ago, Sylvia's casual flirts and passes had been overwhelming as they happened so often and so lightly, Oswald was never sure if she meant them or not. Knowing she meant every single flirt, he'd managed to take it all in stride. Every now and then, he had to exercise his own professionalism, knowing that Sylvia could care little about business prospects or perspectives.

Sylvia drove them to _The Sirens_ , a smoother ride than any Butch or Oswald had the luxury of experiencing. When they got there, all three of them stepped out of the car with Sylvia leading the trio through the doors. Like the last visit, she was passively watching the band on the stage; her nose curled in bias. It was some rag tag band crew with no pension for entertainment. Then again, maybe she caught them at a bad time—it was almost closing time, and they had to deal with the raucous man who was sitting on a couch, beat to a pulp with a bag of ice held just beneath his jaw.

She idly swooped by the bartender, who offered her a drink. Politely, she declined for reasons she didn't give them. When Sylvia approached the man, he looked at her uncertainly.

"Hey." She greeted, grinning lightly. "You look like shit."

He rolled his eyes. Just as he did, Barbara and Tabitha came sauntering in, looking more or less pleased with themselves with the outcome of their beating. Oswald and Butch came up shortly after they did, all meeting in that area.

"So…" Sylvia sighed. "What's his name?"

"Why does that matter?" questioned Tabitha. "He's a no-body."

"It matters because _I_ asked." Sylvia returned patiently, although her eyes glared daggers at Tabitha with little subtlety. "What's his name?"

Barbara and Tabitha glanced at each other, not knowing. So, Sylvia asked the man herself.

"Bowis." He said, rubbing his jaw. "My name is Bowis."

His speech impediment caused by the jaw injury was easy to notice.

"Boris." Sylvia repeated. "So, tell me, Boris. What happened?"

"I _told_ you what happened," Barbara said despondently. "Over the phone, remember?"

"I want to hear it from him."

"Why?" Tabitha asked.

"Because I do. Now if that's something you can't deal with, I'd love it if you just left the building, okay, please and thank you," Sylvia said crisply, holding out her hand ignoring Tabitha as she turned her attention to Boris, who was watching the women's interaction with curiosity, but mild appreciation for Sylvia's manners.

Tabitha grumbled something under her breath while Barbara said quietly, "Actually, she's in a pretty good mood. I wouldn't push your luck, babe."

Boris looked at Sylvia (sometimes glancing over her shoulder to address Oswald as well) as he said, "We were told that the cwub was built on our tewwitowy—so we came, saw that it was so, and then the bitches—"

"—Hey, _uncalled_ for! —" Barbara gasped, although she feigned hurt.

"—attacked me," Boris finished, glaring at them. He said to Sylvia, "They owe us money."

"' _Us_ '? Who's 'us'?"

"The losers that came with him," Tabitha answered for him.

"And, where are they?"

"Dead."

"Oh, how charming." Sylvia muttered, rolling her eyes. She looked at Boris: "Babs told me you attacked her first. Is that true?"

"Well, I might have smacked her a wittle…"

"'Wittle'," Barbara mocked him. Tabitha smirked alongside her.

"So, let me get this straight: You come barging into a club that you don't technically own," Sylvia uttered calmly, "hit the first person you see, and then expect them to turn over their club to you based on the fact that they built their club on your territory. That's what I've got. Am I right?"

He nodded.

"Cool..." She sighed. She looked at Oswald, who watched her with a little smile of his own, and said, "Well, baby. It's all yours. I have _no_ hand to play in this. Both sides of the story are there."

"You mean 'stowy'," Barbara giggled while Boris glared at her.

"We _really_ don't have time for this," Oswald said impatiently.

"He started it," Tabitha said contemptuously, to which Oswald glared at her.

"It's a lie," Boris insisted. "The cwub was built on _our_ tewwitowy."

"'Cwub'!" Barbara giggled. "What's a 'cwub'?"

"Cwub!"

"What's a 'cwub'!"

"Cwub!" Boris repeated, trying to enunciate but unable to get any further.

"What's a 'cwub'? I mean, can anyone understand him…"

Oswald impatiently stamped his foot ("Enough!") and Barbara, although she quieted down, still grinned broadly, ready to mock the next thing that came out of the injured gangster's mouth. Just adding salt to the wound—kicking the man while he was down, that kind of thing.

Sylvia sat on the couch beside Boris, who glanced at her uneasily. Seeing that she wasn't doing anything, Boris somewhat settled, although he didn't relax much.

"We will work something out," Oswald said calmly, looking at Boris, who appeared somewhat satisfied by Oswald's peer mediation, although the ladies didn't look that much into it.

Sylvia grinned widely; she always enjoyed watching her hubby work. This scene was no different.

Oswald turned to Barbara and said professionally, "Now, this is his territory. You built your club on his land. What are you willing to give him in return?"

Barbara looked thoughtfully at Oswald then she turned to Boris, who watched her with piqued interest as Barbara slowly took a cherry garnish out of her drink, provocatively sucked the fruit dry of any alcohol, and then placed the garnish on Boris' leg, with a cheerful "boop!", to which Butch smiled in amusement, Tabitha smirked, and Oswald looked like he might lose his patience.

He said pointedly, "That is not _helpful_."

"Are you seriously telling me you don't see what's going on here?" Barbara returned. She pointed to Butch, adding, " _He_ is behind this."

Oswald, Tabitha, Boris, and Sylvia glanced at Butch, who said incredulously, "What are you talking about?"

"He sent this _ding dong_ to squeeze us," Barbara said flippantly, "hoping that it'd send us back to you, so he could lord it over Tabby, ain't that right?" And she gesticulated to all parties respectively.

Oswald turned and looked at Butch dangerously.

Butch chalked it up to hilarity, saying, "That's c—that's just—that's crazy—that's just crazy! She was in Arkham, hello!"

"' _Hello_ '! So was _I_!"

Butch looked a little stumped after that.

Sylvia raised her eyebrows, looking at all of them, including Boris, with interest. This was turning out to be an entertaining show after all!

"Is that true, Butch?" Tabitha said curiously, looking at him.

Guilt was Butch's new look, and he cleared his throat in an attempt to make himself smaller. Boris looked all kinds of betrayed, while Oswald looked up at the ceiling, scoffing, "Unbelievable!". He took a few steps towards Butch, who could recognize that expression from a mile away; it read 'how dare you go behind my back…' After the fact, Oswald turned. He looked at Sylvia, nodded to her.

Sylvia clicked her tongue, pulled out her gun that sat on her hip, cocked the hammer back, and then blew Boris' brains out all over the couch. Meanwhile, Barbara and Tabitha grinned simultaneously.

"Run your club. But _just_ so we're clear." Oswald spoke directly to Tabitha: "The only reason _you_ are still alive is Butch. The moment he gives me the word, you're _mine._ Sylvia…"

Sylvia stood, pushed Boris' dead weight onto the floor, and grinned beautifully at the ladies before following Oswald out of the club.

"Boss—"

"Not a word, Butch." Oswald said, raising a hand and callously getting into the passenger seat.

Sylvia smiled sympathetically at Butch, saying, "If it's any consolation, I see why you did it."

"You hate Tabitha though…"

"Yeah, I do, with the burning intensity of a thousand suns, _but…_ I know the feeling of having the upper hand and since you have only one hand, I imagine that's all you really have left when it comes to that woman." Sylvia returned, patting his shoulder.

Appreciative of her sentiment, Butch moved to the back seat and tried to make himself seem small for the rest of the ride.

***Author's Note: End of Part 2. Part 3 coming up :P


	9. Somewhere Only We Know (Part 3 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the fifth installment of this story :)  
> Highlights: Sylvia and Alfred Pennyworth team up to save Jim, Bruce, and Lucius Fox from Hugo Strange; Sylvia earns a moniker for her reputation in the streets as well as a performer; Sylvia tries to navigate Barbara Kean's bold advances as well as her own attraction to her; Jim and Sylvia's mother's disappearance is explained; Ivy Pepper is a spy; Demetri's allegiance is revealed and he makes an effort to endear himself to Oswald and Sylvia; Oswald enlists help from an old friend as he pursues his mayoral campaign; and Sylvia and Oswald prepare to become parents. XD  
> As before, trigger warnings and the like are placed at the beginning of applicable chapters.

**Chapter 22: A Soft Spot For Fish**

While Oswald chewed out Butch for going behind his back and causing unnecessary drama and frustration for him, Sylvia went upstairs to take a bath.

Water shot out of the faucet and while the tub filled, Sylvia undressed, lit violet and maroon tinted candles (lavender and rose petal scented, respectively), placing each on a golden circular plate around the bathroom, including the sink, and on the counters. As she struck the match, she idly admired the burning flame for its heat and beauty, a little pyro coming out before she quickly lit the wicks before the flame started creeping to her skin.

While she blew out the match, a pair of knuckles tapped the oak door.

Still dressed in her bath robe, but mindful of whomever was standing in the doorway, Sylvia glanced over her shoulder to see Oswald, who appeared less than merry about the recent events. Not that she could blame him; the whole thing that happened with 'The Sirens' and Mr. Boris had been completely unnecessary, and had all been a ploy for Butch to gain Tabitha's attention, even if it was a little underhanded and sloppy.

"Bath time came early," He cared to note as he closed the door.

Sylvia observed him, a little half smile reached the corner of her lips when she noticed just how haggard and frustrated he appeared. For lack of a better euphemism, the lecture he'd given Butch really did ruffle his feathers.

"It's only eight."

Oswald raised his eyebrows at her, and he glanced at the wooden little clock that sat on the counter just beside the sink, noticing that what she had said was a fact—he hadn't realized how much time they'd spent down at the night club! The whole night had been stolen away from them, it seemed.

"Come here."

Oswald heard her soft timbre and met her eyes; they beckoned to him.

He walked over to where she stood, and once meeting her by the side of the tub, Sylvia lifted her hands to his face, her thumbs softly caressing along his cheek bones; the tips of her other fingers gently massaged the back of his head.

"The night isn't over."

"What else is on your agenda?" She asked curiously, tilting her head slightly. "What could you _possibly_ have left to do?"

"I wasn't joking when I said I was going to pay a visit to your stray."

"You mean 'Demetri'."

"Yes, I was referring to him."

"Visiting hours are over."

"And you think that will stop me?"

"Of course not," Sylvia assured, as she lowered her hands from him to turn off the faucet. "But the hospital's security is fucking strict. You may be able to walk in with a machine gun and threaten to slit a patient's throat with a scalpel, but god forbid you want to visit someone past six o'clock. They'll just turn you away."

"No one turns me away."

"Well, _they_ will insist."

"Why do I get the feeling you're trying to protect him?"

"I'm not being protective by any means. I'm just being honest; the Gotham General Hospital staff are anal about visiting hours."

"I suppose you're right."

"I _am_ right. Now, stop fussing over your tedious agenda, and join me."

He smiled at her motherly tone, watching her turn from him so she disrobed and then stepped into the bath tub. She mumbled something he couldn't hear, probably how hot the water was, since as she submerged her lower half, her chest and neck became flushed with pink before him. Perhaps it was the temperature of the water…or maybe it was her modesty, realizing that she was bare naked in front of him while Oswald was still fully clothed.

He didn't really have to think twice about her suggestion, so he undressed, placing every article of clothing neatly on top of the counter as he did. It was his turn to blush when he realized he was standing in full nude in front of Sylvia…they'd been married for a time, and it was always an embarrassing fact that he could suddenly become so self-conscious when he stood in front of her.

That seemed to be a trait they both shared.

As he slowly sank in the tub, all of him for save his shoulders were submerged and hidden beneath the array of bubbles. Sylvia waded over to him, her legs straddling his as she sat on top of him, wrapping her arms around his neck, peppering him with a few soft kisses before reaching his lips.

Oswald returned every one of them.

"We don't get many of these moments anymore," She murmured once the kiss broke naturally. "Have you noticed that?"

"I have. Does it bother you?"

"It bothers me, but it's kind of necessary."

"Meaning?"

Sylvia shrugged and said softly, "With wealth and luxury comes the inevitable responsibility. Honestly, I miss the old days…"

Oswald frowned: "You mean, when you and I were still working for Fish?"

"I don't miss the verbal condescension," Sylvia said lightly, rolling her eyes as she thought of the times when Fish would roll out some apathetic musing about Oswald, being her nobody Umbrella Boy, and herself being 'only a barmaid'. "But I do miss the days when you and I went home, ate dinner, and didn't get any of this extra drama that came with being top dog."

Oswald considered this, and he sent her a small, understanding smile. Yes, he remembered those days, all right. They sat like this for a moment in silence: Her arms resting casually around him, her hands lightly stroking the nape of his neck, while he cradled her hip in one hand, the other delicately grazing over her lower back. Soft kisses in the silence.

"What are you going to do when you find Fish Mooney?"

"You know exactly what I plan on doing."

"She spares your life, and you shoot her dead?"

Oswald blinked, for the very fact that he was certain he heard something in her voice. What was it?

"I'm gathering from your tone that you disagree with that plan."

"It's not that I 'disagree'," She uttered quietly.

"Well, you're not in agreement with it, so one can only guess that you're on the opposite side of the fence."

"You and I both know that there isn't just one side of Fish. She's more complicated than what people realize."

"You'd prefer that she stay alive and torment us with her existence?"

"Of course not."

"So, what are you implying?"

"She spared you for a reason," Sylvia reminded. "Perhaps in her greater scheme of things, she doesn't want to kill you. Maybe she wants to…you know…impart some wisdom, or—"

"You think she wants to make an alliance?" He questioned skeptically.

"Well, is it so far-fetched?"

"Honey, after what happened with Delilah, Demetri—now _Fish_ above all people—I'm starting to think you have a soft spot for her."

"I'm _not_ getting soft. I'm trying to think out of the box—outside of my own fucking paranoia," Sylvia explained defensively. "Maybe she wants more than just to cut off my head and shoot you in the fucking face. Maybe after dying, she's realized there's more than just vengeance on the brain. Why come back from the dead, back to Gotham, just to settle the score? Fish can be petty, but she's more than that."

Oswald sighed again, but this one was more exasperated than skeptical.

He purposely moved Sylvia off him and said firmly, "I pushed her off a building, made myself the Penguin, and you shot her mother on stage just to prove a point. She doesn't want an alliance; she _will_ want to settle the score."

"How can you be so certain of that?"

"I know how she thinks."

"What—and I don't?"

"I was with her every day since I had started working for her. If anyone knows Fish, it would be me."

"And that makes you the subject matter expert?"

"Are we going to argue about this _now_?"

"There's nothing to argue about. You knew a side of Fish that I didn't, but I also knew a side of her that _you_ didn't have privy to know. We can agree to that, but to not even _consider_ the possibility that Fish isn't just out for some petty revenge is nothing like you."

"Are we even talking about the same person?"

"I'm just saying: try to consider that you may be thinking about this all wrong."

"Do you think I am?"

"No, but it's something to consider."

Oswald exhaled patiently, sinking into the water all but his nose and eyes as he tried to assuage his irritation with Sylvia's insistent remarks of Fish's possible innocence. There was no way that the Fish Mooney _he_ knew would want anything more than revenge for suffering all that he and Sylvia had imposed upon her.

After a moment had passed during which neither person spoke, Sylvia moved closer to him. He sat up when she did.

"I can't explain why I feel the way I do. I admit that Delilah and Demetri's betrayal have done something to me…made me soft, doubtful—whatever…but there _was_ a point in time when I would have done anything for that woman. Now, I know the moment you set yourself in her ranks that you were ready to push her out of Falcone's chain, but there was a time where I actually did love Fish." Sylvia gestured to herself, adding, "A part of me—however small and insignificant—still misses her.

"When she died, I was happy, because I knew that it would push you wherever you needed to go, but there was a part of me that died with her. When I heard that she was back…I don't know…I guess I was hopeful because maybe it's like a second chance? It's hard to explain…"

Oswald looked at her, listened to her. He could see her internal struggle with the reality of the situation. They spoke of Fish being complicated…Sylvia Cobblepot had her beat when it came to complication. Sylvia moved closer to him, hesitating before she sat on him again.

"Does any of that make sense?" She asked uncertainly.

"It does. However, I do believe you're blinded by the past."

"I'm nothing without my memories of her—the good, the bad…the ugly. I'm not saying ' _don't_ kill her' when you get the chance, but if there's the slightest part of you that doesn't shoot her on sight, then try to follow that piece. If not for Fish, and not for yourself, then do it for me, okay?"

Oswald nodded.

"If a part of me doesn't kill her instantly, I _will_ follow it. Just for you." He vowed.

"Kiss on it?"

Sylvia tenderly kissed him; he returned it, lovingly.

Then the kiss became harder, feverish. It was soft and steady like the ripples along the river bend, and in a matter of minutes, there were waves of passion.

Breathless whispers, desperate moans. Above the bubbles and the surface, Sylvia and Oswald were passionate lovers, tongues entreating, enticing. Below the bubbles, Sylvia's hips slowly gyrated, her swollen petals grinding against Oswald's hard, stiff cock.

"I'm horny as hell," She whispered, nipping Oswald's bottom lip, "but it's amazing how water makes it dry."

"You're telling me," He agreed, letting out a small laugh when she kissed his nose.

"I want to take this to the bed."

"By your lead, Pigeon."

Sylvia grinned from ear-to-ear, and she stood; the water fell from her shimmering body, the light of the lamps and candles gleaming off like highlights on an illuminated body of water. As breathtaking as Sylvia's wet, naked body appeared and as happy as Oswald could be to stare at it all day, he was anxious to shove her face down in the soon-to-be dampened sheets and comforters, and take her.

Sylvia grabbed a towel from the rack, drying off as well as walking to the bedroom, throwing it behind her; Oswald chuckled, catching it, and following her mannerisms. Stepping over the threshold of their master bedroom, Sylvia sat on the edge of the mattress, then hoisted herself into the middle of the bed, beckoning Oswald with a sly smile of her own.

Like a moth to a flame, he was magnetized.

"Do you want to close the do—"

Sylvia interrupted him with a passionate kiss, her hands caressing his face and eagerly subduing him.

"Fuck the door," She giggled. "They know not to come up here by now, if they know what's good for 'em."

She meant the staff, of course.

And she wasn't wrong; the staff didn't venture upstairs unless they were summoned. And they never were.

Oswald moved on top of her, already feeling empowered as she quickly wrapped her legs around his waist, her body pliant against his own. He felt a little smug about how her body was already thrusting against him, her thirsty cunt grinding against his stiff member, eager for friction.

Hands groped; fingers spread. Bodies were sheen with a mixture of sweat and dampness from the bath.

Oswald grabbed a handful of her hair, wrapping the locks around his fist twice, pulling back so her head followed the movement, her soft neck exposed to him. He pecked her flushed skin, licking her sweet spot between her shoulder and jaw line; he felt her shudder underneath him.

Her hips settled into a needy grind, purposely humping the shaft of his cock so he was forced to feel the dampness of her pussy, the noticeable swollen clit that longed for contact.

"You're a hungry one, aren't you," He breathed, but even as he said it, he couldn't hide his own desire.

When Sylvia shamelessly showed him just how much she craved his attention, it was hard to ignore her wordless pleas. What she wanted, she could speak; what she craved and needed, her body did the talking for her.

Unable to tease her any longer, Oswald moved inside of her; the head of his cock slowly sliding between the petals. Her soft moans became sudden needy whimpers. He watched her eyes close tightly, her bottom lip tucking between her teeth, as she felt every vein of his girth slide inside.

She craved speed; her hips grinding against him. Insistent.

"Easy, Pet." He whispered into her ear.

"Mm-mm!"

He grinned.

"Nice and slow."

Sylvia opened her mouth to protest; he grabbed the opportunity to silence her with his own.

He rested his weight on her, pinning her hands to the mattress on either side of her pillow; their fingers, interlaced.

He took his time, slowly moving in and out of her slick entrance. A few times, Sylvia would try to tempt him to go at a faster tempo, but he wanted to treasure this—her naked body, the way they were so close and intimate.

He had noticed, too, that their precious moments together— _alone—_ were, indeed, too few and far between. He didn't want to rush it.

When there was no sign of pushing the tempo, Sylvia relaxed and while she didn't push him to move faster, Oswald was content to feel her body relax into his pace.

"Good girl." He praised, and she beamed in the middle of their kiss.

Soft, slow, and tender.

Even as they tenderly kissed, Oswald could feel himself getting closer. Just as she was showing signs of reaching that climax. The muscles that gripped him contracted, and threatened to make him lose control.

" _Fuck_ …" He moaned.

Sylvia rolled her hips against his, and he felt that tiny numbing, electric shock that promised a strong orgasm to come. She lifted her head and eagerly nipped his jaw. Apparently, they were on the same page.

He quickened the pace, and as the pace became faster and harder, their sex became rougher. Oswald sat up, thrusting his cock into Sylvia so hard that her head hit the headboard a little too hard.

"Oh, god, are you okay?" He quickly asked.

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" She laughed it off, reaching up and bracing herself against it.

It didn't take long. In the next few minutes that passed, Sylvia was forced into an orgasm, and her pussy clenched down on him so hard that it made Oswald come right after.

Moans became soft sighs; breathlessness, panting.

Sylvia remained on her back, looking up at the ceiling as she smiled in bliss. Oswald lied down on his side, letting out a deep exhale as he smiled in the same way.

"Have I ever mentioned how much I love you?"

She smiled beautifully: "More times than I can count, but I don't mind hearing it again."

Oswald and Sylvia grinned at one another, shared one more kiss, and slowly fell asleep in each other's arms.

**Chapter 23: Sylvia Meets Vale**

Sylvia meandered around The Flea.

When she normally visited the third-world shopping center, she had a mission. This time around, she had come to see Ivy Pepper…although, she didn't know why. Sylvia didn't have a certain agenda in mind when she approached the large, brooding guard, named Bole, who remembered her from the last visit—he quickly let her in without question.

Sylvia didn't even know what she would say to Ivy when she saw her. There was no one to spy on, no one to undermine, or people she suspected who'd turn against her anytime soon. While Demetri was probably a good candidate, he was still recovering in Gotham General after his exaggerated attempt to prove his loyalty to her—not that she didn't appreciate the gesture. Even now, Sylvia wagered Demetri would turn against her in due time, but for the moment, the hospital staff kept an eye on him. And that brought her to the most important question she needed to ask herself: Why the hell was she walking around The Flea, looking for her child-like spy if she had no work to be done, no money to be earned.

Hell, maybe it was because she liked Ivy, and she just missed talking to the kid.

It was strange, though.

She asked the Fences who marketed low-end products with outlandish sale prices whether or not they saw the redhead. Of course, when it came to these ruffian teenagers, they always wanted something for their valuable time, even if they couldn't offer any valuable information—Sylvia paid them for their shrugs and 'Don't know's, and continued walking.

It wasn't until she was about to leave before a teenager dressed almost entirely in leather seemingly fell from the sky line and landed on her feet right in front of her. Sylvia gave her a moment's startled gaze before realizing it was Selina Kyle.

"Nice entrance." Sylvia noted, smirking at her. "You have a flair for that, don't you?"

"I know why you're here," Selina said dryly, looking at her.

"Well, 'hello' to you, too."

"You're looking for Ivy, right?"

"Yes, I am. Do you know where she is?"

"I was kind of hoping _you_ would." Selina replied callously, although there was a flicker of something other than sarcasm in those eyes of hers. "I've not seen her for a while, you know. And I know she's been working for you."

"No. I'm sorry, I don't know where she is. She's been MIA for a while, then?"

"Yeah…"

"Do you think she's in danger?"

"Well, I wouldn't be asking some bird's wife if I didn't, would I?" Selina retorted unhappily, bringing her weight to one foot as she put her hands on her hips.

"Okay, look—I'm all about this sass of yours, but taking that attitude with me is not going to get you any answers, assuming, of course, that I even had them. I've not seen Ivy for a few weeks, young lady. And judging from _your_ tone, I'd say you have a better idea about where she is than I do."

Sylvia expected some backlash from the teenager, but instead, Selina looked overtly apologetic. She reeled back some sass, and she crossed her arms over her chest as though she was trying to defend herself from something emotionally traumatic. Feeling anything sort of sarcasm or cynical humor was probably too painful for someone as tough as Selina Kyle, but Sylvia noticed the smallest tinge of worry.

"Never mind." Selina said offhandedly, glaring at Sylvia.

"Wait—"

But Selina was already climbing two fire exit escapes before Sylvia could tell her to stop and tell her what might have happened to Ivy Pepper.

"Well, _shit_." Sylvia mumbled, watching Selina vanish onto the roof.

It seemed reasonable enough to say that finding Ivy Pepper was going to take more than just a trip to The Flea. If a ginger-haired orphan girl ended up in the obituary section of the newspapers…Sylvia sighed and headed towards the better side of Gotham to some of its more rundown apartments.

If she couldn't find a friendly face at The Flea (aside from Selina Kyle), she'd visit her brother, who—now and days—always had something baking in the oven when it came to adventures.

Jim wasn't a fan of catering to pop-ins. He despised surprises, especially the ones that came unannounced to his front door just as he was waking up in the morning. The knock that came just as he was slowly moving around his homely abode made his brain hurt and his eyes roll to the back of his head as he opened the door.

And there was Sylvia, wearing blue jeans and a white halter top. Her copper-red hair, which now extended down to the middle of her back, was pulled into a long braid which fell over her left shoulder. Immediately, he glanced down to see that she was starting to show, the smallest baby bump poking from behind her shirt.

Times were definitely changing.

"You didn't call." Jim said as he stepped aside so that she could enter.

Sylvia glanced around the messy, lived-in apartment.

Back when Jim lived with Barbara Kean, Sylvia could attest that Barbara was probably the cleaner, neater roommate. While Jim never had the flair for being tidy, she wasn't expecting _this_.

Newspapers littered the wood work of the living room floor; empty beer cans, crushed beyond all recognition except for the Brand name lined the kitchen counters, dining table, and even the coffee table in the living room. Clothes—probably just worn and not really soiled—were thrown over the back of the couch after having just finished doing a load of laundry…because what was the point of folding them and putting it back in the drawer, really. There were dishes piled in the sink—some were rinsed off before being added to the pile while others appeared to be a few days' old.

"Normally, you call before you pop up," said Jim as he closed and locked the door (the door knob, the dead bolt, and the chain lock). He watched her observe the environment within his living station, smiling to himself as he braced for that sisterly lecture.

"I didn't know I was coming until I showed up, honestly." Sylvia answered, surprising him when she didn't lecture him on hygiene.

"Well, it's nice seeing you, either way."

"Have you considered hiring a maid?"

"That costs money."

"So does an exterminator."

"Ha, you've got jokes." Jim rolled his eyes, but smiling in spite of her criticism. "I just made some coffee; do you want any?"

"No, I'm fine."

"No caffeine for the baby?"

"No, it's not that. I just don't care for it at the moment."

"Now, that's something I didn't think I'd hear in this lifetime or the next."

"I have something of an aversion to it." Sylvia explained as she leaned her back against the backend of his couch. "When I smell it, it makes me want to puke."

"If it's making you sick right now, I can toss it…"

"Don't worry about it. I'll manage."

He watched her curiously as he drank his cup of joe, standing with his back against the kitchen sink, noticing that she, in her own little way, looked uncomfortable. In hopes of no longer dragging out the silence, he said, "You're starting to show."

"Oh yes, that, I am." Sylvia said, rubbing her belly.

"Do I get to know if I'm having a niece or nephew yet?"

"I have an appointment next week. The doctors tell me that they're sure we'll get to find out during that time."

"That's exciting, I suppose?"

"Very much so, yes." Sylvia returned, nodding emphatically.

And then, for whatever reason, there was that painful silence, that _awkward_ uncomfortable transition. All that could be heard was Jim's occasional sip of his black coffee, and Sylvia's boot heels clicking on the tile of the kitchen as she walked to the table, noticing that he had drawn circles over headlines, detailing the timelines of recent monster sightings.

"I hear Penguin's put a million-dollar-bounty on Fish." Jim cited, glancing the newspaper that stated as such.

Sylvia glanced it over and said lightly, "That's a fact."

"I figure it is. Came from a few sources."

"Reliable sources?"

"They're just sources. I don't know if you'd call them 'reliable'."

Sylvia nibbled on the inside of her cheek, casually looking around before saying, "Jim…?"

"Yeah?"

"Why is it awkward talking to you?"

"I don't know…I was actually wondering the same thing." Jim said uncomfortably, looking at her.

"Are you jealous?"

"Why would I be jealous?"

"I'm having a baby." Sylvia said anxiously. "You were in my position…well, Lee was, anyway. But so were you. Maybe that's why?"

"I'm not jealous that you're having a kid," Jim forced a small chuckle so that what he said didn't come out as serious as it might have. "It's kind of _awkward_ that you're having one."

"I think all of this is awkward."

"What do you mean: 'all of this'?"

"You not being a cop, me having a baby, this apartment _alone_ ," She gestured to the kitchen. "I'm still surprised you've held off being a cop as long as you have."

"If it makes you feel any different, I'm happy."

"You're living like a bum."

"Well, it didn't take long for your criticism to come out, did it?"

"It's not a critique if it's _true_." Sylvia emphasized, poking the dishes in the sink, adding, "This is how you get a bug problem."

"Maybe I'm not the one with a bug problem."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that something is _clearly_ 'bugging' you." He said smoothly, putting his coffee cup down.

"Oh, fantastic. Puns."

"You came here without calling. You're uncomfortable around me. I'd understand it if you came busting in and saw me in a compromising situation with a woman, but I'm just drinking coffee. I'm the one living paycheck to paycheck, but you're the one that looks like you've been through hell."

"That's very flattering, thank you."

"I'm not trying to insult you, but it's true." Jim sighed patiently.

"I'm just tired."

"Of?"

"Of everything. I'm tired because of the baby stuff, but I'm tired in general. I'm always tired. We've not talked in a long time so I suppose you don't know the most recent thing to have happened."

"Which is?"

"Well, Delilah's gone."

"Delilah….?"

"My protege."

"Ah, the one that dresses like a Goth?"

"Well… _dressed_."

"She's gone-gone?" Jim questioned, eyebrows furrowing in concern.

"Yep."

"That's a shame."

"Not really. She had plans of killing Oswald and me, so it's a good thing she's gone," Sylvia returned flatly.

"Right after that Brittany girl, huh?"

"Yeah. I'm starting to think that the position itself is tabooed."

"The fact that you're telling me Delilah is 'gone-gone'…I'm to assume that she was 'disposed' of in some dark, dingy alley?"

"In not so many words, yes."

Jim drank the rest of his coffee, adding, "Well, she endangered your life, and my niece or nephew's. I suppose that in the end that's what would have happened."

Sylvia chuckled, "I can't believe I'm hearing what you're saying. You think she _deserved_ getting killed?"

"I don't know what I think when it comes to your people, honestly."

"Well, just so you know, it didn't end there."

"It didn't?"

"No, she had an accomplice."

"I'm guessing you figured that one out?"

"Yes, I did. Demetri."

"Do I know him?"

"I don't think you two have been officially acquainted, no, but it's safe to say that he's in the hospital as of this moment," Sylvia returned as she fiddled with a newspaper, looking it over but not reading any of it.

"Why is he in the hospital?"

"He opened his forearm with my switchblade."

Jim blinked, saying slowly, "And why on Earth did he do that, dare I ask?"

"To prove his loyalty to me."

"You asked him to do that?"

"I _told_ him to. It was either he did that or I blew his brains out."

"This conversation is getting too frank for my taste," Jim muttered as he poured another cup of coffee.

"He chose to hurt himself, Jim."

"It sounds like he didn't have much of a choice."

"Probably not, but I didn't twist his arm."

"No. He just carved himself up so you didn't kill him." Jim replied sarcastically.

Sylvia crossed her arms and said defensively, "Well, I hate sounding like the bad guy, but that's the reality of my work, Jim. If he was _smart_ , if he had an ounce of integrity, he wouldn't have teamed up with Delilah—he would have come to me when he found out that Delilah was conspiring against me."

"You're saying 'he would have', but why do I get the feeling you mean 'should have'."

"Because he _should've_ come to me," She emphasized, leaning over a kitchen chair, her hands on the back of it. "Delilah would have perished either way, but Demetri wouldn't be in the fucking hospital and I wouldn't have been put in the position of threatening my own staff."

"Sounds to me like all of this drama you've endured is self-inflicted." Jim said dryly, looking at her over his second cup of coffee.

" _Excuse me_?"

"You might want to change your management style if people are just betraying you left and right, Vee." Jim explained, unaffected by her flaring temper. "After a certain point, I figure you'd stop trying to cater to people who don't deserve your kindness and generosity, and stick with what you know: hardy, good, clean people..."

"You're referring to the GCPD? Help _them_ instead of people who—you know—actually _deserve_ it?"

"From what you've told me, Vee, the people who 'deserve' your help are backstabbing, two-faced, scruffy parasites who want nothing more than to wait for you to turn your back and—"

" _Okay_ , I get your point."

Jim shrugged and drank the rest of his coffee. Sylvia let out a deep exhale of frustration before she pinched the bridge of her nose in an attempt to isolate a headache from finding its way to her frontal lobe.

"Harvey Bullock could probably use your help. He's been having a whale of a time with back-up."

"Instead of telling me to go help him, why aren't _you_?"

Jim didn't give her an outright answer but his nonverbal response of 'meh' was enough for her.

"Well, at least it's not awkward anymore."

Jim cleared his throat, then he patted her shoulder, adding, "For what it's worth, I'm _not_ jealous that you're having a baby. In fact, I'm thinking that maybe you're jealous of _me_."

"Why would I be jealous of _this_?" Sylvia replied, looking at the apartment as a whole. "This place is like a termite's wonderland."

"I'm guessing Penguin's kept a pretty close eye on you?"

"Of course."

"And I've not seen you outside of your club or the mansion for weeks now."

"Well, yes but—"

"—Which leads me to believe that Penguin has become _very_ protective of you—"

"—What the fuck is your point, really."

Jim smirked.

"As happy and enthusiastic as you are about having a son or daughter, you're _very_ bitter about not being able to do things as you would normally—killing people, for instance. You've had to change all of that, haven't you? No more knife fights, or spark wars, no violence of any kind. You have a baby to look after."

"Wow, you said all of that _so_ smugly—you're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Jim laughed, "Honestly, Vee. I really am. For once, I don't have to worry about you because you're worried about yourself, for a change."

Sylvia let out a scathing noise, but Jim smiled sheepishly since he knew he was right.

There was another knock on the door. Jim looked at Sylvia; she looked at the door curiously, glancing at him just as suspiciously.

"Stay here." Jim warned, pointing to the kitchen.

She held up her hands in surrender, doing as she was told.

When he opened the door, Jim frowned. Sylvia recognized the woman from Oswald's impromptu press release at the GCPD station about Strange's monsters.

It was Valerie Vale, all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed so early in the day.

"Morning!" Vale greeted ironically. "Surprised to see me?"

Jim replied dryly, "Not really. What do you want."

"I have a proposition!"

"Not interested." Jim responded immediately, closing the door.

Vale was adamant though: "Oh _come on_ , think of it as a way of saying 'I'm sorry for handcuffing you to a car door!" And she pushed her way in.

"Except I'm not."

As Vale waltzed right in, she stopped immediately in her tracks when she saw Sylvia in the kitchen.

"Oh my goodness, I didn't expect you to have company," Vale remarked, grinning widely when she recognized her.

"You don't expect much of anything, do you," Jim mumbled, walking past her to join his sister in the kitchen.

Sylvia addressed Jim pointedly, "You handcuffed this woman to a car door?"

"Without my permission, mind you," Vale added with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"James!"

"It's not what it sounds like, trust me," Jim grumbled, rolling his eyes as he poured a third cup of coffee. This time, he added a shot of whiskey. "Fish Mooney was using her and the rest of the Gotham Gazette to track down Peabody."

"Peabody…?"

"Strange's assistant," Jim explained.

"Oh, right. Her."

"And," Vale added pointedly, "just as we were going to find her _together_ , he cuffs my hand to a car door."

"You would have gotten in the way," Jim reminded. He said to Sylvia, "By the way, Vee, this is Valerie Vale. Vale…this is my sister, Sylvia."

"No introduction needed for this one. Sylvia Gordon: juvenile delinquent since age 11. Worked for Fish Mooney as a barmaid and waitress, then for Salvatore Maroni, and, now, works for Penguin. Now, stop me if I'm wrong, but you're _married_ _to_ Penguin—so do you work _for_ him or _with_ him?"

"It varies from moment to moment," She replied coolly, as she languidly stood behind a kitchen chair, her hands clasped on the back of it. "You sound like you know quite a bit, Ms. Vale."

"I've done my research."

"But you don't know much more than what anyone else knows about me, so nice try."

Jim grinned widely, seeing Vale get shut down in a matter of minutes.

But that didn't stop the reporter from inquiring further: "You run 'Lean on Vee's', don't you?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Your brother calls you 'Vee'."

"Yep."

"Off the record, was that like a major 'eff you' to him to name a club known for serving criminals and hard-to-do workers?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Amazing. Someone should really do a story on you."

"It wouldn't make best-seller, trust me."

"Well," Jim sighed, "this has been fun, but if you don't mind, Vale—my sister and I were in the middle of a very important discussion before you—"

"So _this_ is where you live," Vale continued, looking around. "Anyone interested in a life of bounty-hunting should see this. Preferably wearing a hazmat suit—you don't _bring_ women here, do you?"

"All right…" Jim muttered, ready to ignore anything that would come out of this woman's mouth a minute after.

"Fish Mooney. Penguin's million-dollar bounty. I can help you get it."

"Why should I entrust you to help me when I have Vee."

"She doesn't know where Fish Mooney is either," Vale scoffed, glancing at Sylvia pointedly. "No offense, Mrs. Cobblepot."

" _None_ taken."

"A million dollars can buy you a whole new place, you know," continued Vale candidly, gesturing to the apartment. "Maybe a new car…more scotch" (she eyed the Irish coffee) "and even a nice suit. You know, unless you wanna just pow-wow in this termite wonderland."

"Hey," Sylvia chuckled. "That's what I called it."

"Termite Wonderland might be a good theme park," Vale said, agreeing.

"It might be, but no self-respecting ding-dong would profit from a place named after a bug."

"Unless it was spelled differently."

"Like T-E-R-M-I-G-H-T?"

Vale mused, "Original."

"Thank you." Sylvia returned, bowing her head slightly.

" _What's in it for you_ ," Jim said irritably towards Vale, although he sent Sylvia an equally irritated glare.

"A story," Vale answered.

"Really?" Jim and Sylvia responded simultaneously.

"It shocks you that I love my job and I wanna be good at it?" Vale addressed the two of them.

"Kind of. Why not bring her in yourself? Why give _me_ a million dollars?" Jim questioned.

"Unless you think your sister would go halfsies…"

Sylvia chimed in, "I don't want the million dollars. That'd be weird—my husband giving _me_ the bounty."

"Well, you work for him, don't you? Consider it a pay raise," Vale said cockily.

"If I wanted a pay raise, Ms. Vale, I assure you that I don't need to go on a man hunt to earn my keep."

"Oh, I'm sure you could earn it other ways—there's no question about that."

Sylvia sent her a leery glare, and Jim put his arm in front of his sister, if anything just to pull Vale's attention from her to him.

"Vee," said Jim calmly.

"Hmm?"

"I have a book you might be interested in reading. It's in the bedroom, on the end table. Go and take a look, would you?"

There wasn't _any_ book Jim had that Sylvia could possibly think she'd be interested in reading. But that wasn't the point, was it? Jim sent her a meaningful look—the 'I'm trying to help you out, now go, _please'_ expression.

"Sure. Why not."

She left the room.

Vale smirked.

"You're pretty protective of your little sister, aren't you, Gordon?"

"First things first." Jim said coolly, although his teeth gritted firmly as he approached Vale.

"Going to give me the protective brother speech? 'Don't go near your sister or else' kind of thing?"

"Something like that." He said sardonically with an equally sarcastic smile. "But mainly, I'm just going to give you a little warning. It's common knowledge that Sylvia has been known to be impulsive, reckless—"

"—She's rumored to have a killed a few people—"

"—Exactly, so with _that_ said, if I were in your position, I'd lay off with the antagonizing remarks, huh?"

"See, now if only Gotham could see this sensitive side of you…"

"Oh, good god—"

"So, how about it? A million dollars?"

"Aside from wanting a story, what's your other angle?"

"I don't have another angle."

"You're a reporter—you all are more bent than octagons."

"How flattering."

"It is what it is," Jim said, shrugging.

"Well, has it ever occurred to you that I'm just a bigger person than you?"

"Mm…"

"And…and I couldn't find Fish."

"So you lost touch with your source."

"I didn't lose touch with her," Vale insisted. "I just can't really find her. She has always found me."

"Oh, that's comforting."

"I like her though. She's very stylish. A teenager on the runway of a very leather-ish, rundown-ish theme."

"Jim! I'm not finding this book!" Sylvia's voice called from the bedroom. "HOW DO YOU FIND ANYTHING IN THIS FUCKING DUMP! IT'S LIKE AN ASSHOLE MARRIED ANOTHER ASSHOLE, AND THE TWO OF THEM GAVE BIRTH TO A SHITHOLE!"

Vale raised her eyebrows, and commented, "Colorful vocabulary."

"You should hear her when she's mad," Jim promised. "It only gets worse." Then he shouted, "IT SHOULD BE ON THE BED!"

"IT'S NOT ON THE FUCKING BED!"

"IT'S ON THERE, TRUST ME—THAT'S WHERE I LEFT IT LAST!"

"I'M NOT FUCKING BLIND, JACKASS! I CAN SEE THAT IT'S NOT ON THE—OH WAIT, NEVER MIND, I FOUND IT! IT WASN'T ON THE BED, IT WAS ON THE FUCKING DRESSER!"

Vale stared at him, almost stupefied to silence before Sylvia came out and held up a book that read 'Where's Waldo'.

"Seriously?" She stated in amusement. "This is a joke, right?"

"Kind of." Jim replied, grinning at her.

"Hilarious." Sylvia mused. She threw the book at him; he caught it, and she sauntered back into the kitchen.

Vale looked between the two of them with unbridled entertainment before she looked at Jim expectantly.

"What do you say? It's a million dollars."

"It's Penguin's money."

"So?" Vale responded carelessly. "A million dollars is a million dollars. I mean, stop being so damn lazy. It's your job, right? It's your specialty. You _find_ people. You're a bounty hunter!"

"What's the name of your source?"

"Selina Kyle."

"Hmm."

"You run into her when you were a cop?"

"Our paths have been known to cross a couple of times."

"Oh, that's great! So, you know where she lives."

"No, I don't."

"Don't _you_?"

Sylvia gave her a look and said monotonously, "Why the hell would I know where she lives?"

"You're the 'Lark'," Vale chuckled. "You know everyone and anyone who's under the line of integrity and diplomacy. Penguin's the General; you're the Lieutenant, who knows the name of all the foot soldiers, right?"

"You amused me earlier. Now, you're starting to fucking irritate me, Vale."

"She doesn't know," Jim told Vale hoarsely, glaring at her. "Remember our conversation earlier?"

"Yeah, not to antagonize your sister." Vale recalled. She grinned at Sylvia, saying, "Got some anger issues, Mrs. Cobblepot?"

"I'm going to punch you in your fucking face."

"Whoa, no, no, no." Jim coaxed lightly, pulling her back. "Easy, _easy_."

It wasn't until when Vale was on the verge of a violent crime that she actually noticed Sylvia's unearthly glow. And then she noticed the baby bump.

"Oh, that explains it." Vale pointed out. "You're pregnant—hormones are really driving you crazy, aren't they."

"You have **no** idea." Sylvia responded hotly.

"Vee."

"What? She's annoying as hell!"

"I know, but _don't_ punch her."

"Fine! I'll talk to you later." Sylvia said, pushing his arm away from her. "I'm leaving."

"Love you, Vee."

"Ditto."

As she left, Jim glared at Vale, who returned it with a look of innocence and reproachful naivety.

**Chapter 24: Her Baby Girl**

In the days that followed, a few things happened: Harvey Bullock was somewhat taking charge while Captain Nathaniel Barnes was in and out of the hospital in recovery after being stabbed by the late Theo Galavan. Demetri Byrd was discharged from the hospital, and Sylvia went to the baby doctor to find out the sex of their unborn child.

While these things were probably irrelevant to one another, they _were_ relevant to Oswald's stress.

Unfortunately, for him, the Crime Families within Gotham had become so addlepated by Strange's monsters, including the knowledge that Fish Mooney was leading them, that they were messing up more often. Profits weren't showing; in fact, Oswald was led to believe that there were a few rats hiding in the belfry, trying to skim what they could off the surface before it was their time to be exterminated.

While Sylvia had been understanding of the role he needed to play, that didn't stop Oswald from feeling guilty for having to miss the grand moment the two of them had been waiting for. She had the news, of course—he would just have to hear the news later on in the day.

During said day, Demetri was discharged from the hospital. While Sylvia entrusted that he was a 'new man' after having witnessed his life flashing before his eyes in a matter of minutes, Oswald was beside himself. In fact, he was certain that Demetri was hovering in the grass until the time came to betray his sympathetic Patron…and they'd be in the same boat they were in once again except this time Demetri would succeed where Delilah did not.

Oswald instructed for Gabe to keep a _close_ eye on Demetri. For the moment, he was preoccupied with Harvey Bullock's GCPD not doing squat about Fish Mooney. He didn't expect them to find her, or even get close, but there was news circulating the underground about how Ethel Peabody had been kidnapped last night, and that the police were tipped off about some bank near Kane Sound being Fish's hideout.

He sat in the mansion, watching the media frenzy. While he earnestly awaited news of Fish Mooney's capture, one hand remained fitted around his cell phone, where he was waiting for Sylvia to call him and tell him she was on her way back from the hospital.

In a few minutes, a text message made his phone vibrate; he peered at the message Sylvia had sent him. It was simple: ' _Fish escaped. Going by GCPD. Love you_." Following her two sweet words was a small blue heart emoji.

Oswald frowned. Of course, the police let Fish escape. How _droll_.

He stood to his feet, buttoned the last two buttons on his dress coat, grabbed his cane, and with Butch tracking behind him, Oswald decided that he would make an appearance to the media once more. This time, he would not be so civil. This time, he'd make sure that every citizen of Gotham—not _just_ the police—would be after Strange's monsters. If it meant having peace restored in his empire once more, and a few days of quiet with his wife, Oswald would instill in the crowd some motivation to hunt down every one of those monsters and kill them all.

Originally, Sylvia had been heading towards the police station to pick Harvey's brain about how quickly Fish had escaped from their clutches. Eager to see the aftermath of Fish's escape, Sylvia drove her car alongside the few police cars that were parallel parked along the curb of the bank.

Swiftly, she looked around, and she spotted Harvey Bullock walking to his car, defeated. She called his name, and he turned to see her. There was little surprise on his face as he greeted her with an unenthusiastic smile.

"I told you I was able to help."

"I remembered our conversation."

"But…?"

"Look at you, Liv." Harvey said, gesturing to her figure.

"So?"

"You're pregnant."

"I reiterate: _So_?" Sylvia repeated, looking at him pointedly. "If you'd have listened to me _this morning_ , I'd have been in on what the GCPD was planning, and I'd have probably helped you get Fish."

"It wasn't just _Fish_ in there—"

"I wouldn't expect Fish to be the only one in there. Please tell me you were expecting others to be in there, because if you weren't…" She tsked, but she offered mercy when he leaned against his own car, looking at her with desperately tired eyes. "So, fine, forget Fish. You and your cop buddies managed to put a few other monsters down before she flew the coop."

Harvey looked at her and said unhappily, "What will Jim say when he finds out you're trying to get in on these dangerous missions. He'll probably skin my hide if he found out—"

"First things first. Jim _knows_ I'm trying to help you. Second, I'm a grown-ass woman and I can do whatever I want with or without his approval."

"I'd have thought having a baby would make you more docile."

"In some circumstances, it has." Sylvia admitted, and she inadvertently touched her belly with her hand.

"How's Penguin taking it?" He asked, but she wasn't able to answer his question as a large, brown van with dark tinted windows crept forward.

The moment it stopped; two misfits jumped out of the van. One was silver-haired, youthful while the other was dressed in black with a mouthpiece over her jaw. Quickly, Harvey put one arm in front of Sylvia, pushing her behind him protectively.

"Fish Mooney wants to see you," said the first.

Harvey moved to pull out his gun, but the young silver fox moved a lot faster, almost supernatural-like. She held the gun, pointing it at Harvey, who immediately was subdued as he said, "All right, all right!"

Sylvia started inching away, hoping they'd be more interested in Harvey so that she could flee, call Jim, tell him what happened. But the eldest of Strange's monsters—who in her defense appeared more human out of all of them—strode forward, grabbing Sylvia's arm.

"She'd _love_ to see you too."

"Great." Sylvia said, managing a calm smile although her heart skipped four beats.

Harvey grumbled under his breath, and Sylvia followed him (with the others striding) and they were forced into the large dark van without another minute to spare. Harvey and Sylvia were forced to give up their cell phones—god forbid they tried to make a desperate call to anyone they cared about.

As Harvey and Sylvia sat down on one side, they were met face-to-face with Fish Mooney, who smiled all too widely when she saw who graced her presence.

"Hey, Harvey." Fish greeted.

"Hey, Fish, how're you doing?"

"Not too good."

"That sucks," Harvey responded carelessly.

"And who do we have here," Fish all but drawled. She smirked when she recognized Sylvia on sight. "My, my, my…Hello, Sylvia."

"Hello, Ms. Mooney."

"I'm impressed already. You've not tried to hurt any of my friends, or _me_."

Sylvia didn't respond.

Perhaps she had been mistaken when she told Oswald not to kill Fish Mooney on sight. Seeing the woman now, Sylvia wanted nothing more than to place at least five-hundred yards between them.

"You know there's a lot of people out there looking for you," Harvey stated, in partial hope that Fish would be more drawn to his conversation than to stare at Sylvia.

"It appears that way, doesn't it," said Fish coolly. "I even hear there's a million-dollar bounty on my head." She pointedly smiled at Sylvia, who shrugged a shoulder. She added: "I need to find that bastard, Strange."

"Yeah, well, you know I can't help you with that."

"Oh, you _can_. And you _will_."

Fish leaned forward, kissed Harvey on the lips, and then a second later, Harvey had switched sides, saying, "I'll help you find Strange."

"Good boy." Fish cooed, smirking at him. She then turned to Sylvia: "You know. I think it's time we have a heart-to-heart right now."

"Absolutely not."

"Excuse me?"

"I've used that expression myself. You want a heart-to-heart? No. You want to rip _my_ heart out of my body and feed it to..." She glanced at their present company, all of whom were glaring her down. "Well, I don't think I have to say it."

"I don't want to kill you."

"Forgive me if I don't believe you."

"Why don't you believe me?"

"Well, I killed your mom. But…in my defense, I didn't realize that was your mother until _way_ after. Had I known—well, I would've probably killed anyone else."

"That's sweet. If you want to even the playing field," Fish drawled. "I could shoot _yours_."

"Fat chance of that happening."

"Why is that?"

"My mother committed suicide when I was nine," She answered apathetically. "And that's not a ploy either to make you think she's dead. I just found out this year, so…"

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be."

Fish cocked her head to the side, almost amused by Sylvia's reaction. Then the woman noticed that Sylvia was holding her stomach almost too protectively. It didn't take long for her to realize her secret.

"My, my," Fish cooed. "I guess I know _now_ why you've not made any attempts on my life."

"Perhaps I just want to be civil."

"Civility? Don't be modest, child."

"I'm not being modest."

"No…" said Fish gently. She leaned forward; Sylvia, by instinct, retreated with her back against the van. "You have a little bun in the oven, don't you?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"Well, it certainly explains your docility."

"Perhaps I'm just fearing for my own life."

Fish laughed, "I don't think I've ever seen you fear for your own life. Not in a million years…it's always someone else you're protecting, isn't it, little girl: Oswald, your brother, your friends…even Harvey here."

"Ms. Mooney…"

"Don't insult my intelligence."

Sylvia felt very small when she was in the line sight of Fish's glare. Even after all these years, _that_ feeling never changed.

"Fine. You're right." She admitted quietly, looking down at her feet. "I'm pregnant."

"How far are you?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I'm curious."

Sylvia lifted her eyes, and stubbornly returned, "But _why_?"

"Just indulge me."

When Sylvia didn't answer her immediately, the silver-haired young lady cocked the hammer back on the gun she was carrying, the barrel aiming at her. Fish glared at her, taking her wrist and lowering it so the gun no longer was directed at Sylvia.

"Four months."

The danger and callousness seen in Fish's eyes flickered, as though it nearly vanished. Then again, maybe Sylvia was getting a little woozy—all she could think about was the danger her child was in…and this time, she hadn't even _meant_ to put herself in this situation. It just literally happened!

For a moment, Fish's attention was drawn back to Harvey, who directed the van left and right—the driver (another one of Strange's monsters, or someone that had been manipulated by whatever Fish's power supposedly was) followed his instructions to a 'T'. Sylvia licked her lips uncertainly, even more so when she felt the baby cuddle 'closer' to her inside her own womb.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," Sylvia whispered, patting her belly. "It's going to be fine."

Fish glanced at her swiftly, then the van had stopped moving.

"What's happening? Where are we going? Why did we stop?"

"Just keep moving," the silver fox ordered, pressing Harvey's gun against Sylvia's shoulder. "And stop asking so many questions."

"I'd be asking _less_ questions," Sylvia retorted as she stepped off the back of the van, "if you'd tell me what the _hell_ I am doing outside of… _what_ is this fucking place?"

Fish grinned widely as she met Sylvia around the back. She took her hand, and Sylvia startled.

"It's where they've been keeping Strange." Fish explained.

"Oh…okay, then." Sylvia murmured, curious as to why Fish was holding her hand as they walked to the door just moments after Harvey had introduced himself to the soldiers guarding the entrance.

When talking didn't do the trick, Fish's lackeys put a bullet in each of them. Harvey looked less than thrilled, but walked inside with Fish and Sylvia, who was still trying to understand the nature of Fish's feelings for her.

What was Fish planning to do with her when all was said and done, really? She asked about the baby, and seemed more than inclined to be friendly. Despite the death threats on her mother's life, Fish had barely made any other threat to Sylvia, despite their adversarial past. And _that_ was what made this situation that much scarier.

After the events that took place where Hugo Strange had set a bomb to blow up half of Gotham because of what his monsters were capable of doing, he was arrested and kept locked away where no one except Capt. Barnes and Harvey Bullock were privy to know. Forget the fact that this man had changed Fish in more ways than one, but also had intervened in Sylvia and Oswald's marriage, resulting in a separation. even if it had only been temporary.

When Sylvia and Fish walked through the door, they were met with the doctor who was sitting inside something of a glass cube, wearing full white garb. He reminded Sylvia of a bald albino goldfish wading inside a small aquarium, whose only predilection would consist of writing formulas on the glass walls or swimming to and fro as he steadily went mad.

It was a fitting premise, if ever Sylvia had to come up with one detailing the future events in the doctor's life.

Upon seeing his guests (if one called them that), Hugo Strange glanced up from his papers and even had to do a double take. Slowly, he rose from his desk and just as cautiously approached the glass wall.

"Professor Strange," Fish said calmly. "You and I have some unfinished business."

Instead of fearful, Strange appeared nostalgic, seeing Fish Mooney, who was his own creation.

Sylvia remained glued to the wall farthest from the two as she crossed her arms and tried to appear invisible. Even while Fish hadn't made any threats on her life, who was to say that once Fish had finished with Strange that she wouldn't start?

As discreetly as possible, Sylvia looked all around for a phone. A phone, a letter…a fucking pigeon—any matter of contact that she could make outside of these walls so that she could alert either Jim or Oswald that she was in trouble. Alas, despite the loveliness of the interior that was the mansion, there seemed to be hardly anything.

 _Go fucking figure_ , she thought.

"Look at you," Strange said breathlessly. "You were my _greatest_ creation."

"Your 'greatest creation' is dying," Fish replied unhappily.

"What?"

"You're going to _fix_ me, Daddy. And when _that's_ done, you're going to make me an army. An army of people just like me, so that I can have this city _kneeling_ at my feet."

Sylvia muttered to Harvey, "She scares the shit out of me but you gotta hand it to her; she has ambitions."

He responded, glaring at her, "Shut up, Liv."

"But I can't," Strange told Fish sadly. "I can't fix you."

Fish looked ready to respond with all the hatred and bitterness in her soul but the humane monster who wore a mouth piece approached her dutifully, saying, "Fish. Cops. Lots of them."

Sylvia startled at the statement, and glanced curiously at Harvey, who returned her nonverbal question with a shrug of his own. Neither of them had been able to contact the GCPD as of this moment, and yet, _here_ they were, apparently swarming around the mansion.

"You have a few minutes to rethink your answer," Fish warned Strange. "I suggest you do."

She shortly left with her monster friends, one of which forced Harvey to go as well. As Sylvia began to follow them, Fish turned and quickly told the others to go on. Sylvia quickly retreated, stepping back a few paces until her back hit the wall with Fish standing in front of her.

"Ms. Mooney, I—" Sylvia began, although she wasn't certain what she was ready to say or do.

Fish put a hand on her face, gently caressing her jaw.

Like a mother.

Fish had attempted to use her own power on Sylvia as she had done to persuade Harvey to help her, but whatever her intention had been, it seemed lost on her. The woman had braced herself for the pain that would have surely accompanied her ability, but when it never came, her eyes—both her hazel brown as well as the ocean blue—gazed at her as though Sylvia was not the same woman that Fish had known all these years.

"You still care for me." Fish whispered, more shocked than reassured. "Don't you, Sylvia?"

"Well, my feelings about you _aren't_ simple, I can tell you that right now," Sylvia said with a nervous laugh, just as uncertain of what Fish might do next. "I mean, look at the facts. You tried to have my husband killed multiple times, not to mention my brother…and myself." (She knew she was rambling but she couldn't stop herself due to her anxiety.) "You stabbed my husband's hand with a fucking broach pen, but then I killed your mom, so you know, I guess we're kinda even. But again, in _my_ defense, I didn't know she was your mom, not until someone had told me. Then you died—you know that first time—but came back to life, _somehow_ , and I thought you were dead but I guess you never were…held up in some strange warehouse—I suppose that's how you have two different eyes now—but alas, never really dead. _Then_ I thought we were even—you know, you go after us, we go after you—but Oswald pushed you off a building…I'd love to say I'm sorry for that, but after what you did to him, I can't say that. I thought that was the end of that, but then you came back to life, and that's—I'm still trying to figure out how _that_ happened….now that I th-think about it, I guess that's why you're here talking to Strange and stuff. I thought you'd settle the score and kill me too, but now I'm just trying to figure out why you're like this. Like _this_...like—"

The hand that wasn't caressing her face lifted to silence Sylvia's rant. Sylvia stared at Fish, waiting for the slap or some kind of punishment for all these years of doubt, betrayal, what-have-you, but it never came.

"I have an ability," Fish told Sylvia quietly. "To make people do what I want without use of force or violence."

"Yeah, I saw that in the van with Harvey…"

"I've had to use it often."

"I could see why."

"But not with you."

"Pardon?"

Fish caressed Sylvia's face with both hands now, and Sylvia protectively shielded her child from whatever might come later.

"I just tried using my ability with you, and…"

"If you're going to kill me, Ms. Mooney. Could you do it without the blather?"

"Are you afraid of me?"

"Yes." She admitted, nodding emphatically.

"Are you afraid that I might kill you?"

"More than ever."

"I wouldn't kill you." Fish said lovingly.

That's right… _lovingly_. The words that came out of her mouth almost sounded like she was hurt by Sylvia's assumption.

"You're my baby girl. And I've never been prouder of you."

Sylvia blinked.

"I shot. Your _mom_. Oswald threw you over a _building_. You should want to kill me…"

"But I don't want to do that. I've seen how much you've grown…and look at you now. I've seen how people respond to your name _alone_ …and I could not be prouder of my baby girl." Fish cooed, grinning at her. Doting.

"Wow…" Sylvia muttered. "Honestly, I was expecting anything but _that_."

"Yes. I can be quite unpredictable."

" _Fish_!"

Hearing her name, she sighed and patted Sylvia's shoulder, saying, "Excuse me. I have a few things to tend to. Do be a dear, though, and watch _him_."

Sylvia nodded and watched Fish leave to take care of the cop situation.

She smiled at Hugo Strange, who watched her from behind his glass barrier.

"So, we meet again," sighed Sylvia, eyeballing him carefully. "If I had a comfy arm chair, I'd sit down, ask you a few questions about your childhood and then it would be my turn to ask 'how does that make you feel'."

"Mrs. Cobblepot, I can assure you that allying yourself with Mooney will be one of your most tragic mistakes."

"May be." And she didn't say anything else after that.

Jim knew that Harvey had been kidnapped, especially when after the cop didn't answer his phone or his pager. And when Sylvia didn't answer her phone either, the plot thickened and his worry increased tenfold. After telling Barnes, the police were sent to the mansion; it was Fish's only logical step that if Peabody was unable to help her, then she had to go straight to the source.

As the cops swarmed around the mansion, Jim headed the team to the front entrance, along with Barnes who stood there as well, ready to pool the team inside to rescue their brother. Jim's phone started going off, and he recognized Harvey's number. Barnes quickly grabbed it, and questioned the caller.

Fish's voice came out, clear as a bell: "Oh, he's fine. But this ain't Harvey."

"I want to talk to him."

"Sure." Fish returned reasonably.

Barnes and Jim waited on the other line, and heard Harvey's voice: "Hey, Cap. How are ya? Sorry."

Jim said quietly, "Ask her if she has Sylvia."

"Why would she have—" Barnes growled.

Fish must have heard them because she said lightly, "Sylvia Cobblepot? Or as the papers call her: 'Lark'. Oh yes…I have her too. We've just been having a nice girl talk."

Jim frowned; he and Barnes exchanged worried glances.

"You have one chance, Mooney," Barnes spoke to her on the phone. "If you let them go, you might just make it out of this."

" _Chump_. You're speaking to a dying woman, which _severely_ limits your negotiating position. So, here's how it's going to go down. One cop comes within twenty feet of this place, Harvey _and_ Sylvia—as much as I love them—will eat a bullet. I'm assuming Gordon is there with you?"

Barnes glanced at Jim, who returned the surprised reaction.

"Yes, he is." Barnes said quietly.

"You'd be sure to let him know that while I'm _not_ the monster the papers or Dr. Strange have made me out to be, I do _not_ want to do it but I will eliminate all of whom is necessary in order to get what I want. Even if that means killing Sylvia _and_ her unborn child. Now, I don't _want_ to do that, so please, don't make me."

The worried look that framed Jim's face became one of protection and vengeance. Fish threatened his best friend's life, his sister's, as well as the life of his unborn niece or nephew…now _that_ was inexcusable.

And apparently, the woman hung up.

Barnes appeared defeated.

"What's going on? How was Bullock?"

"LISTEN UP!" Barnes shouted, gathering the attention of every nearby cop. "I want a full perimeter! Snipers on every corner! Mooney does not make it out of this! Understood?"

Everyone agreed while Jim was beside himself. He caught Barnes' arm, saying, "Captain, you cannot just leave them there!"

"You think that's what I'm doing? I'm just not charging through the front door so that he gets killed. Now, I'll remind you: you are no longer a police officer. If you get in my way, I'll have you arrested!"

And then the pressed arrived to which Barnes let out a derisive groan.

Oswald sat in the mansion, still waiting for Sylvia's call…but the media struck an interesting query.

Butch stood behind him; his hands lazily rested on the back of Oswald's chair as he nonchalantly looked on.

On the screen was a woman who stood amongst many others trying to break through the perimeter of cops, as she continued her report: "We are standing outside the mansion and preliminary reports are that wanted escapee from Indian Hill, Fish Mooney, has barricaded herself inside and is holding a hostage…"

Oswald released a satisfied sigh, saying, "Here it is, Butch. She's finally cornered. Like a _rat_."

"Yeah, but what are you gonna do?" Butch asked calmly. "The cops are already there."

"The GCPD is _not_ Gotham, and Gotham listens to _me_."

As he stood and prepared to leave, Butch cleared his throat and said warily, "Boss, you might want…"

" _What_?" Oswald questioned, but he turned to look at the television once more, and realized what Butch was unhappily looking at.

The reporter had continued: "Fish Mooney, an escapee from Indian Hill, has reportedly locked herself inside the mansion where currently Hugo Strange has been hidden away. My sources have reported that Fish Mooney has not only taken one hostage, but _two:_ they are Harvey Bullock, one of GCPD's detectives, and one of Mooney's older associates, Sylvia Cobblepot."

Oswald quickly turned off the television, and he said promptly to Butch, "Come, Butch. It's time to round up our friends."

Sylvia meandered around the small room, idly glancing over the paintings that were nailed to the polished walls. While Strange had originally tried talking to her with a vague attempt of helping him escape, his efforts were lost on her.

She approached the glass, and said calmly, "Strange, while Oswald was put away, you were not helpful one bit. In fact, from what I've gathered, you intercepted the letters that he was sending to me and I, to him, with some half-pint idea that he would be fully rehabilitated and would no longer want or need me. Was that a goal of yours?"

Strange said lightly, "Your husband was sick—"

"So is half of Gotham, what's your point?"

"Mrs. Cobblepot, I had no intention of separating you and your husband. I knew that with distance, there would be a—"

"'Distance makes the heart grow stronger'?" Sylvia recited, smirking at him. "Please. With all your diagnoses and therapeutic knowledge, I was hoping for a far more interesting excuse than that little tripe. Geez…how exactly did you get your fucking degree?"

"It has worked in the past for many patients."

"Did any of _them_ want to kill you?"

"Well, some, but—"

"If the outcome is the same, I'd probably try to go in a different direction. Look at me, for instance. Most people follow me and I don't have to offer them money, jewels…therapy." She made a scathing noise. "In fact, they seem to be consistently loyal without me ever even trying."

"If that's the case," Strange said darkly, "You would have an army at your disposal."

"Well, not _every_ follower has honest intentions of staying that way. You get a treacherous scoundrel from time to time. Them's the breaks."

"And yet, you believe the people you have are loyal to you."

"For the moment, yeah. One apple spoils the bunch…but I've acquired many faithful subjects."

"Oh yes, and not just from the criminal pot. So loving as your followers are, they've given you a name. A name, dare I say, that even the police officers and the news reporters use."

"Yes, a name," Sylvia returned. "It's not a name that I made up or even claim, but it seems to work."

"Oh, _yes_. 'Lark'. The guards and soldiers _here_ have even commented on its subtle appeal."

"I don't let it go to my head."

"Of course not. Of course not. You've always had that chip on your shoulder, the thing that keeps you down-to-earth; it's what attracts your followers, perhaps that, and your unmentionable power to subdue the one authoritarian figure that everyone in Gotham truly fears."

Sylvia leaned against the wall, saying, "You're doing it again. Talking out of your ass."

"Perhaps," Strange drawled. "But let's be honest, shall we? While people in Gotham believe that the Penguin rules with the iron first, is the 'King of Gotham', those who are more perceptive know the truth."

"What fucking truth?"

"You're the woman behind the man," He said with an ironic smile. "If anyone wants to get to Penguin, they merely have to get to _you_. Or, soon enough, your child. He is no more a god than you or I, and if anyone wanted to bring him down, all they'd have to do is seek you out, eliminate you entirely, and then the king would crumble."

Sylvia glared at him.

"Or maybe," sighed Strange as his eyes twinkled. "Perhaps it goes both ways. A double-edged sword, to say. If someone went after Penguin, eliminated his existence, the _queen_ would fall. Yes, I daresay that while your marriage has been a mutual symbiotic relationship—perhaps borderline commensalism—I imagine that if one was left without the other, it would result in self-destruction. As strong as you are, as tough as your mind is, it's rather tragic."

Sylvia approached the glass, ready to slit his throat despite how accurate his acclaim was. That was until Fish sauntered back into the room, glancing between the two with mild interest.

"Is everything all right?" Fish questioned gently.

Sylvia glanced at her and muttered, "Fucking peachy." She glanced when the others didn't follow, asking, "Where's Harvey?"

"He's with our friends, keeping the others in line."

"Are the police going to be a problem?"

"Not for _me_. No."

Well, that was hardly reassuring, wasn't it? By her statement, the police weren't a problem for Fish, but they'd become a problem for herself…that was easiest to see.

"Where were we…?" Fish drawled as she climbed into the glass cube. And Hugo Strange looked even less inclined to antagonize Sylvia.

"Believe me," said Strange sincerely. "If I could fix you, I would. I think of you as one of my own children. But I can't."

"So, what am I supposed to do? **Give up**!?"

"Do you not understand what you are? What you represent? You are the first of a new generation. A new Eve."

Clearly, that wasn't the answer Fish wanted. She looked up at the ceiling for a moment in thought, glanced at Sylvia, who was in all honesty uncertain what to do with herself. Fish steadily approached Strange, who remained bravely still.

"You know I owned a club once," She said carefully. "Ran protection on the side. Every first of the month people would pay me. Every once and a while, someone would always come up short and they'd say, 'Mooney, I don't have the money.' 'Mooney, I need more time.' Then, they would cry and cry. Wouldn't they, Sylvia?"

She nodded, unable to suppress a small little smile. Back when she actually worked for Fish. Woke up in the morning and actually looked forward to working for the woman simply because there was always something to see, and frankly, because the woman was a sight to behold at any point of the day. And the memory made Sylvia smile, but it was also sad; look how far they'd come from that point. Look, indeed.

"Then I discovered," Fish continued darkly, "that when I squeezed them, and squeezed them, and _squeezed_ them. They always had more."

Sylvia's heart fluttered. Maybe it was out of pity for Fish. Or maybe it was because the child inside kicked her bladder and the movement made her both want to physically piss herself as well as just leap for joy.

"You are going to fix me," Fish said tearfully. "Or I swear to god, you will pray for your death—"

"Fish!"

"What are the cops doing now?"

"It's not the cops," said the woman with the mouthpiece, who glared at Sylvia. And Fish glanced at her as well, knowing what her friend meant.

Sylvia followed Fish and the woman towards what would be the living room area. Sylvia glanced out of the window to see that on top of the officers from the GCPD, Oswald was leading a mob of people, all of whom were carrying pitch forks, torches (how cliché, she thought), baseball bats, shovels, and an array of other blunt objects. Presumably, they'd storm the castle and kill all of whom were threatening their livelihood.

Perhaps it was because Fish Mooney was inside and Oswald was tired of waiting for someone to bring her to him. Or maybe, he'd listened long enough to the news and discovered that along with Harvey Bullock, she was the other hostage, and that's why he'd led a mob to the GCPD's operation.

Maybe it was both.

"Sylvia…"

She turned around to see Fish Mooney watching her with avid amusement.

"Oswald certainly knows how to transform a small event into a standing ovation, doesn't he?" Fish said coolly.

"It's one of the things I love most about him."

"Your honesty might get you killed, baby girl."

"No more than what a lie would do for me."

Fish chuckled, "Also true. A prince coming to rescue his princess…it would be romantic if it wasn't inconvenient."

They rejoined back in the room with Hugo Strange, who watched the two women with unease. There was some movement in the other room, and Fish sighed, opening the double doors to see that yet another of Sylvia's regular heroes had ascended upon the situation.

"Bring him in." Fish said lackadaisically.

Sylvia didn't know to whom she was referring until Jim came striding inside, looking expectantly at her.

"Jim!"

"Hey, Vee." Jim greeted with a small smile. "Harvey."

"Jim, what the hell are you doing here!" Harvey responded.

"Saving you—I thought that was obvious."

"Oh well, thank you."

"Why are you here, Gordon?" Fish questioned. "Did your little cop friend send you inside to talk me down? Get me to turn myself in, because that's not going to happen."

"I came on my own. I want only these two."

"If you take these two, I haven't any hostages. But, now that I'm thinking about it, you've given me three."

"Barnes won't see it that way. You still only have one."

"Technically, she has four." Sylvia muttered.

"That's right…" Fish cooed, grinning at her. "You, Gordon, Harvey, and that sweet little thing." She glanced at Sylvia's stomach, then turned to Jim pointedly.

"I've been a pain in Barnes' side," Jim explained. "If you take me out, he'll see it as a godsend."

"True."

"And he doesn't care much for Vee either."

"Also, true."

"Then you better give me one good reason," Fish threatened, "Why I shouldn't let my friends kill you."

"Mooney." Sylvia softly pleaded.

Fish glanced at her with considerable understanding then turned to Jim, waiting.

"I can get you out of here."

"And how exactly do you plan on doing that, considering this whole place is surrounded." Fish responded practically.

"That's my problem. I get you out of here, I get Bullock and my sister."

"Your sister would be great leverage for me, actually. I might just keep her."

"There's danger to come if you do that."

"You get Harvey, at least. I get this one," Fish said, gesturing to Strange, who began to protest.

"Deal." Jim replied.

"'Deal'? Are you telling me you're not even going to _try_ and save your sister?"

"Sylvia never needs to be saved. She can take care of herself, as she has frequently told me in the past," Jim stated. While his tone was serious, there was a small proud little smile daring to tug at the corner of his mouth. He continued cautiously, "If I were you, Mooney, I'd be thinking of a way to get out of range once you're out."

"Oh really? Why is that?"

"Oswald is _very_ protective of her," Jim said coolly, tilting his head in his sister's direction. "You're not just taking his wife hostage; you have his entire family with you. You already have a bounty on your head, but now you've put a target on your back."

"Hmm. Very well. I'll take it under advisement. You have two minutes."

Jim stepped away to place a call. Meanwhile, Fish looked at Sylvia, who watched her cautiously.

"Your brother isn't as protective of you as he once was," Fish noted.

"You don't know him as well as I do." Sylvia answered lightly.

"If he doesn't deliver…"

"He _will_ deliver. Why even give him the chance to do what he said he would do if you don't even believe he'd do it?"

"When a woman is desperate, she's liable to believe anything." Fish said quietly, and the desperation in her own voice made Sylvia's heart sink into her stomach.

Jim got off the phone, came back into the room. Just as he did, Marv, one of Strange's monsters who could also reverse a person's youth, came through the door with quick report: "The mob has broken through the front door, but the back way is clear. We can make it through the woods."

"Time to go," Fish declared. She grabbed Hugo Strange, and turned, addressing Harvey, "No hard feelings."

"Fish, _screw_ you."

"Fair enough."

Marv started to reach for Sylvia to be sure that she came along with them. She wrenched her arm away as she said, "Don't you touch me! I can fucking walk on my own!"

Marv took her feisty comment to heart, pulling his hands away from her, but he herded her with Fish out of the doors.

"Are we really just going to let Fish walk out with Liv!" Harvey said incredulously.

Jim returned, "I made a deal with Penguin."

"Oh, _that's_ comforting."

"Doubt, now?" Jim said reproachfully. "Penguin annoys the hell out of me, but if there was only one thing I can count on him to do, it's protecting Vee."

Sylvia strode behind Fish, Hugo Strange, and Marv, glancing behind her as the mob burst through the doors with heat in their eyes. They were damn near past the clearing before all four of them heard the click and cock of a gun. When she turned, she saw Oswald standing there, cane in hand; the other held the gun, which was pointed at Fish, who seemed awe-struck.

"Go!" Oswald snarled at Marv, who glanced at Fish indicatively. "Sylvia, get away from her."

Fish nodded her head and Marv quickly disseminated, while Sylvia stepped away and moved to Oswald's side, not before giving Fish a sympathetic side glance.

He looked her over for a moment before he turned to address the quarry.

"That's better." Oswald said with a smile. "Just old friends."

"Oswald…" Fish began.

" _Don't call me that_! My name is Penguin. Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you? How long I've been waiting for this very moment?"

"Mr. Cobblepot…" Strange began.

" **Quiet**!" Oswald ordered.

"So, this is how it ends?" Fish said ironically. "I spare your life, and you shoot me dead in the woods like an animal?"

"Pretty much, yes. But I will admit. That night under the bridge stayed with me. Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why didn't you kill me? I have gone over that night a thousand times in my mind and it doesn't make any sense. Why didn't you kill me—I would have killed you in an instant."

She didn't respond.

"ANSWER ME!" Oswald shouted.

"Because you're mine."

Sylvia glanced at her curiously.

"You were _my_ Umbrella Boy." Fish uttered softly. "Remember? You rubbed my feet when they were tired. And now look at you, the terror of Gotham. Everything I've done with my life, possibly the best thing was turning Oswald Cobblepot into the Penguin. I couldn't destroy that. Ask him" (Fish indicated Strange.) "He understands what it's like to bring something into being…as you will know soon enough. It is a part of you…forever."

Oswald looked like he was on the brink of an emotional wave. His cheeks were damp from the few tears that had rolled down his face. Sylvia touched his wrist. Oswald glanced at her, then to Fish.

He pulled himself together and said calmly, "Good-bye, Fish. Don't come back."

She didn't look the gift horse in the mouth; she nodded, then left with Strange, running past him. Sylvia watched after them for a moment, then stood in front of Oswald, a hand caressing his jawline while the other rested on his shoulder. He smiled at her; she smiled back.

They walked back to the mansion where a pile of monsters as being burned.

"Quite the riot you've started, Mr. Penguin." Sylvia observed.

"It was easier than I thought it would be. Anger is an easy emotion to manipulate."

"It's going to be a shame."

"What is?"

"The monsters being gone," said Sylvia lightly. "My brother might have to go back to the Force."

"Is that a bad thing?"

Sylvia watched as the crowd approached Oswald, looking like they would worship the ground on which he stood.

She returned idly, "I can handle him getting in trouble when he's a police officer a lot more than when he's a bounty hunter. Of the two evils—despite how insufferable he can be holding it— I'd rather him have a badge."

Oswald chortled. The mob—now a friendly, raucous crowd—picked Oswald up and starting cheering, chanting his name over and over again. Sylvia stepped out of the lime light, smiling in spite of herself.

Jim met her on the sidelines.

"I thought you hated Fish Mooney." He stated as he grimly watched the crowd celebrate his brother-in-law.

"I thought I did too."

"So, what, you like her now?"

"I'm not sure."

"Do you hate her?"

"I'm not sure," Sylvia repeated. "She's a complicated woman, Jim. There's no one way of feeling about her."

"That's funny."

"What's funny?"

"You and Fish Mooney have a lot of similarities that way." Jim said calmly, looking at her while he crossed his arms and leaned against one of the cop's cars.

"What can I say? She helped mold me into what I am today. You have to remember, Jim—at one point, I _was_ her baby girl…seems only fitting that I'll soon have my own."

Jim startled, looking at her with wide eyes: "You mean…?"

"That's right. I'm having a girl." She answered, smiling widely.

Jim whistled low, smiling at her. He continued watching the crowd cheer Oswald, chanting the man's name over and over.

He sighed, shaking his head, saying, "This is too much for me. I might go back to the Force."

"I was wondering when you were going to do that."

"Barnes asked me to come back."

"That's noble of him."

"He'd rather me be a pain in his ass that he can control rather than being one where he has no jurisdiction."

"At the rate you're going, you'll give him hemorrhoids."

"Colorful, Vee."

"Well, you're a pain in Barnes' ass no matter if you're a cop or not. You'll always be that hemorrhoid that won't go away, no matter how much cream he uses. He can always get a tire to sit on, I suppose."

Jim stared at her, then burst out laughing.

**Chapter 25: Oswald's Threat**

It was around 5 pm, nearing dinner time. Oswald had every intention of making tonight a 'quiet' one. After all that had happened with Fish, including Sylvia being taken hostage for a time, a quiet dinner seemed more than warranted.

That thought left preemptively when he stepped inside the living room to see Sylvia sitting on one end of the couch; on the next cushion was a guest sitting right beside her. Her guest was a young man who wore heavy bandages on his right forearm, the outcome from an incident where he'd proven his loyalty to her by means of bloodshed.

Seeing the person who had teamed up with Delilah in an effort to destroy everything in his life sitting in the same room, Oswald's temper flared as he entered, glancing between the two of them before he called attention to himself.

Sylvia and Demetri, hearing him, turned their heads in his direction. While Sylvia had little to no response, Demetri quickly stood, looking ready to answer for whatever sins he had committed as Oswald rounded the couch, placing an appropriate amount of distance between them.

While glaring at Demetri, Oswald addressed Sylvia: "Is everything all right, dear?"

"Everything is fine, Oz. Demetri was discharged from the hospital."

"Yes, sir, I'm—"

" _Quiet_. I wasn't talking to _you_ , was I?"

Demetri shook in his jeans, looking between the two Cobblepots—at one with discomfort and fear in his eyes, at the other with the hope that Sylvia would defend him, vouch for his efforts and his reborn loyalty.

In his own right, Oswald was not an intimidating figure, but he was dangerous. Even though he stood in front of Demetri, bearing an inch or two less in height difference, no gun raised, his glare was enough to make Demetri fold on sight. Oswald had beaten the shit out of people for giving him bad news when he was already in a sour mood…why would Demetri's death warrant anything different.

"Sweetheart—"

"Sylvia, I'm going to have a frank discussion with your staff member. Whether you are present for that or not is irrelevant to me; you're more than welcome to attend if that's your pleasure, but I'm going to have a _chat_ with Mr. Byrd, regardless of what you decide. I doubt I have to explain the nature of the discussion to you." Oswald said her calmly, although the smile that reached his mouth was one of obvious dislike for the man before him.

"A heart-to-heart?" Sylvia said amusedly. She clasped her hands together, adding, "I'm starting to become a fan of _those_."

"Miss Sylvia…" Demetri stammered nervously.

Sylvia patted his shoulder reassuringly as she stood, saying, "You'll be fine, kid. Oswald, I'm going to talk to Olga in regards to dinner plans. Is there anything you'd like in particular?"

"You know me well enough, Pigeon. Surprise me."

"I'll surprise with you nothing. How would you like that?"

"That doesn't sound very pleasant."

"But it _would_ surprise you, no?"

"I'd say it would."

Sylvia approached him, her hand gently caressing his arm while he noted her open display of affection in front of Demetri.

She said lovingly, "I won't surprise you with nothing, but I _will_ think of something."

Her humor earned herself a small smile from Oswald which disappeared as soon as she left the room to speak with the housemaid.

He looked to Demetri, his eyes sizing him up.

"Have a seat, Mr. Byrd."

Demetri slowly—albeit nervously—took a seat while Oswald sat in the armchair adjacent to him, leaning his cane against the right arm. For a long time, he didn't talk. Instead, he watched Demetri, questioning –what was in his opinion—Sylvia's debilitating logic for keeping this eighteen-year-old traitor alive.

A small random thought occurred to him, something out of the blue as though it might have been buried beneath his bitterness towards Demetri. While staring him down, Oswald had to admit (perhaps only to himself) that Demetri was a good-looking fellow.

Bright hazel brown eyes, chocolate-brown curls, and an impressively lean, muscular figure to boot. While Sylvia's stray regularly appeared confident in his own brand, Oswald noticed that in _his_ presence, this youth was reduced to a submissive, fearful pup. It was almost flattering…seeing how afraid Demetri was of him.

"This cane was a gift, you know," Oswald said suddenly, tapping his fingers on the handle of his assisted walking device.

Demetri flinched when Oswald abruptly spoke.

"It's…it's _nice_." He cared to note, looking at it for the first time with pretend interest.

"It was a gift from Sylvia."

"She has good taste."

"On a contrary, we vary greatly on what piques our interest. For instance, I'm a man who enjoys the finer things. To her credit, she knows I have more expensive tastes, so she goes out of her way and gets custom made things for me…holidays, special occasions…random acts of kindness, what-have-you," He said thoughtfully. "She's a woman of simple tastes, really…does things for people. While it may not be politically correct, she can be more generous and charitable than most, even when she is compared to the Waynes."

Demetri cleared his throat bravely.

"Uh yes, she's very, _very_ generous. No one could deny that."

"Most certainly, not _you_."

"Sir?"

Oswald leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers together over his stomach, and sternly peered at Demetri, who tried to make himself look even smaller.

It was impossible, of course.

However, that was the point: Oswald's main reason for not wanting Sylvia in the same room was due to her motherly instincts kicking in when it concerned the staff. Granted, while he liked her nurturing spirit—(loved and lived for it in every humanly way that was possible)—the fact of the matter was that Sylvia would have eventually swooped in and tried to save Demetri.

Oswald would have had little choice in the matter to let things go. He had an enormous soft spot for Sylvia, and couldn't deny much of anything to her, even if it meant postponing a conversation he needed to have with Sylvia's stray.

Now that she'd made the choice to leave the room, this conversation was _happening_.

"You _do_ see where I'm going with this, don't you, Mr. Byrd." Oswald said knowingly. "Despite what you've led some people to believe, we _both_ know you're smarter and a _lot_ cleverer than what you would make yourself out to seem. Personally, I wouldn't care if Sylvia maimed you, or even decided to kill you. None of those options would have disturbed me, or even concerned me in the slightest."

"But?"

"The _very_ fact that she let you live after everything you have done…that, young man, is what concerns me. It has brought something to my attention. Do you know what that is?"

"No, sir."

"She's a lot more charitable than what I was led to believe." He shrugged, adding, "She goes out to the Narrows on weekends and gives handouts to random homeless people, lump sums of money that she neither needs nor wants for herself. A female Robin Hood, if you will. She even goes out of her way to make sure everyone feels included. For example: Tomorrow, she's visiting the middle school in order to hold a staff position so that she can form a dance team that includes juvenile delinquents, the differently disabled, basically anyone who has ever felt excluded."

"That's very generous of her."

"Yes, it is. Isn't it."

"Very."

"I'd like to say that we could sit here and talk about her strengths all day long, but sadly, here's where our conversation darkens." Oswald noted with faux sadness.

Demetri's eyes widened as he stood.

"She's too charitable for her own good," Oswald continued darkly. " _So_ sympathetic to the people who've suffered as she had to suffer: the orphans who don't have a mother or a father, especially the children who still have both parents but don't connect with them as well as they should; the homeless street children who have not yet had the privilege of proving their brass; and…people like _you_ , who have so much alleged potential to be an asset."

Oswald said with a frown: "I admit that I see her point. You _do_ have potential but where she thinks your penchant is for allegiance, I believe it's for treachery. Now, tell me if any of this seems new to you."

"No, sir. Nothing new. I've heard all of this before."

"As you should have. Now…" Oswald reached into the inner pocket of his waist coat and pulled out a switch blade, pressing the button so the glimmer of silver became more obvious. "I've had every intention of correcting her mistake since the moment she let you live. I'd like to think she and I share the same pragmatic way of thinking, but sadly, Sylvia is more…Well, she only sees what's in front of her. I look a little further than a week—months, even. And I see you betraying her again."

"Mr. Cobblepot—Mr. Penguin—Sir," Demetri said quickly, raising his hands up, "I know what this looks like—what it _can_ look like—but I promise, I swear, I'm not—"

"Not _what_?"

"Delilah pulled the wool over my eyes—I was manipulated…but I see more clearly! I'm not the traitor people think I am. I care for Miss Sylvia, more than Delilah ever did, more than I can even admit, and there is no way I would make the same mistake twice. Look, sir, look what I did to myself—I'm more than willing to do it again, so I can…"

Perspiration dotted on his forehead. With despair in his eyes, Demetri grabbed the switchblade from Oswald. He started rolling up his left sleeve, over his elbow. At that moment, Oswald realized what Demetri was going to do; quickly, he grabbed the knife back.

"Whoa, whoa—that is not necessary!" Oswald quickly pressed the blade back into its metal nest and placed it in the inner pocket of his waist coat.

"But sir, how else can I prove to you that I'm loyal…"

"That, in itself, was _enough_. Besides, I don't want to put my housekeeper through the pain of having to clean up the room. On a personal note, I doubt it would go over very well with Sylvia if she found out I let that happen. But _just_ so we're clear: she may have decided to let you live for whatever her intentions are. Personally, I'm undecided. For now, rest easy."

He held out his hand. Demetri shook it. Just as they did, Sylvia came back into the living room, humming to herself.

Oswald gripped Demetri's hand hard enough so the latter whimpered, and he pulled Demetri towards him, whispering dangerously, "If I so much as hear a _rumor_ of you going behind her back, or that you've turned traitor—"

"Y-you'll kill me…"

Oswald sent him a hard smile.

"So, we understand each other."

"Y-yes, sir."

Oswald withdrew his hand, and straightened as Sylvia approached the two of them, smiling from ear-to-ear.

"Are the men done talking?"

"We just finished." Oswald stated coolly, glancing at Demetri, who smiled weakly in response.

"Demetri, why don't you go freshen up? You're sweating like a pig." Sylvia noted.

Demetri excused himself with a relieved sigh of thanks and quickly walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Sylvia gazed in the direction of which he'd disseminated, then turned to peer knowingly at Oswald, her arms crossed lazily over her chest.

"You scared him shitless, didn't you?"

"I had a discussion," Oswald clarified, his business-like tone back to the surface. "If there was any intimidation barring the outcome, I doubt it's anything to worry about."

"Your intent _was_ to scare him."

"Guilty," He confessed, smirking. "Seemed to work, didn't it?"

"Did you use the cane as a segue?"

He frowned, saying, "How did you know that?"

"I was standing outside of the door," She explained, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the door that led to the kitchen. "I had some idea how scared people are of you, but never knew just how threatening you could be to my staff."

"Is that a criticism?"

"A jovial observation, one of which I think you—above all—can appreciate."

He gave her a look, saying incredulously, "You're getting some type of sexual gratification from all of this, _aren't_ you?"

"Oh, you have _no fucking_ idea." Sylvia responded, smiling widely.

"I don't understand you sometimes." Oswald said, slightly amused. "First, you don't like me intimidating your staff. But then you get titillated by the idea of me doing what you didn't want me to do in the first place."

"I don't understand it either if it makes you feel any different. Do you think badly of me now?"

"Not at all."

"Oh, good." She wrapped her arms around his neck, adding, "So, _what_ do you think of me?"

"You're an enigma to me, darling. I don't know what to think."

"But you like it, I'm guessing?"

"Very much so." Oswald agreed, allowing a sly little smile to reach his lips. "I'm still learning things about you that I never knew before."

"That's all part of the journey." Sylvia said, winking at him. "Speaking of learning new things…"

"Good segue."

"Thank you!"

"What's your news?"

"We're having a daughter." Sylvia returned casually.

Oswald nodded, then when he grasped the depth of her statement, he looked at her with wide-eyed surprise. Sylvia leaned into him, kissed him, and he returned it.

Attempting to contain his excitement, he said with a smile, "We should start coming up with names, I suspect?"

"I already have a few if you want to discuss them during dinner."

"Assuming we have a quieter one this time around."

Sylvia chuckled, "A quiet dinner in Gotham…I doubt that's such a thing, sweetie."

"We could try."

"Well, Olga's prepping in the kitchen, still. We could try making a second baby before dinner, if you're game." Sylvia mused, licking his upper lip. "Of course, you already know _I_ am."

Oswald's answer came in the form of another kiss, although more passionate.

**Chapter 26: Deep Talks In The Night**

Oswald watched Sylvia sleep beside him. Normally a light sleeper, Sylvia would often turn in her sleep, hear something go 'bump' in the night, and she'd toss and turn. Most recently, and perhaps more frequently, she would stir. Sylvia said it was because the baby kept moving, tossing and turning much like its mother. And much like its mother, the baby was regularly restless. And not just at night—during the day, too.

If, by chance, Oswald happened to turn on the light when it was pitch black, Sylvia said that the baby moved—the doctors explained that the baby is trying to cover its eyes much like if there was a loud sound, the baby would attempt to cover its ears.

When Sylvia tossed and turned more often in a night, Oswald had started patting her stomach, talking to their unborn daughter, assuring that all was well. Whether or not the baby could hear him was something entirely different, but whenever he quelled it of its restlessness, the baby as well as the mother slept more soundly at night.

And the fact that his baby was responding to him already prior to her even coming into the world—well, that always made Oswald's day.

While he would occasionally wake up after feeling Sylvia move too frequently beside him, changing positions every hour or so because of her leg cramps or backaches she quietly complained about, Oswald's insomnia wasn't due to either of these things.

He was thinking of Demetri.

Sitting up with his back against the headboard, Oswald contemplated telling Demetri to stay somewhere else. His existence—knowing he was under the same roof as him and his family—was intolerable for Oswald…even _if_ Sylvia had insisted Demetri stay in the manor with them.

He'd accepted it because he couldn't ever deny her anything. However, now that the deed was done and Demetri had been integrated into the manor with them, Oswald was frigid at the idea. What if Demetri, born of his own intolerance of Oswald's paranoia, decided to end the interrogative questions at odd hours of the day, and kill them both in their sleep?

The thought had occurred to Oswald, so surely, Demetri would have already thought of this once before. And if he'd not thought of it before, what would keep the stray from getting to that same conclusion?

Oswald glanced at Sylvia, who mumbled some of the oddest things while in her dreaming state. He'd only caught a few words, but she mentioned pickles, a small blurb about meat pies, and a murmured statement of 'I don't want _that_ mattress…'.

Again…some of the _oddest_ things.

She lied on her back now, and her baby bump peeked from underneath her black night shirt. She was showing now—no mistake about that. She didn't quite waddle around and she could still bend over to pick things up—Sylvia was versatile in that way.

He'd gone to her club on a Friday night, listened to her sing, and when after the duty hours had ended, Oswald had watched her lead a few new dancers in the choreography she'd come up with during her own sleepless nights. While she _was_ showing, Oswald noticed that it didn't stop her from keeping up with her night club or her passion for sing and dance. She was just as flexible and energetic when she wasn't carrying a baby!

"Mmm….those are my cookies…not…yours." Sylvia murmured. (Cookies and pickles…this woman's appetite was all over the place.). "Mmmfromthejarmm..."

Forget killing Demetri tonight, Oswald thought. Perhaps he was getting a little too paranoid. Not that anyone could blame him, right? He was ruling the Underworld, and was a father-to-be. All he wanted was to make sure that no one was out to hurt his family…

When he felt Sylvia's hand on his knee, he was pulled out of his reverie, glancing down at her face to see that she was awake—a still little sleepy, but otherwise, her eyes were open.

"What are you doing, Sweetheart?" Sylvia asked tiredly.

"Thinking." He answered vaguely.

"About?"

"You know what about."

"Oh, _that_ old gem." Sylvia mused sleepily. She yawned, and put her hands over her stomach, patting the spot above her bellybutton.

"Did she wake you?" Oswald asked.

"Her head is right on my fucking bladder. And she kicked me in the ribs…just when I was starting to sleep well, too."

"Dreaming about cookies and pickles—I can't imagine wanting to wake up from that." Oswald teased, smirking when her eyebrows rose up to her forehead. "Turns out you talk quite a bit in your sleep too, darling."

"Mmm." Sylvia all but responded. She sat up, putting her back against the headboard. Pointedly, she took her own pillow and placed it between her back and the headboard, minding the position before turning to him. "I thought you had the discussion with Demetri."

"I did."

"So, what's the issue?"

"I'm worried." Oswald answered calmly. "He's sleeping under the same roof as me. I find it hard to sleep knowing that."

"Did he threaten you?"

"Of course not."

"Did he seem like he was going to hurt me?" Sylvia asked.

"No."

"So why fret?"

"He's a _known_ traitor, Pet. Knowing that alone isn't exactly reassuring."

Sylvia rubbed her head, looking like she was in pain before she said softly, "If you think he's conspiring against you, then tell him to sleep somewhere else."

"I'm not worried about him turning against _me_. It's _your_ safety I'm worried about," Oswald said vehemently. "At any moment, he could come in and finish what Delilah started. If you're telling me that thought has never occurred to you—"

"Oz, the thought _has_ occurred to me. But I'm not thinking too much on it."

"You trust him, then?"

"Not yet, but I want to."

"So you'll sleep here needlessly alarmed until you can trust him?" Oswald returned skeptically. "That doesn't sound anything like you."

"He can't prove himself if we don't allow him the chance to do just that." Sylvia explained, rubbing her head again. "I'm trusting my gut on this one."

"Like you trusted the other two girls?"

"Brittany was weak; Delilah was misguided."

"Both traits of which Demetri seems to share with them, mind you." Oswald reminded unhappily. He glanced at the direction of their bedroom door, adding, "Knowing there's even the slightest chance of our throats getting slit in the middle of the night—"

"So kill him, then." Sylvia sighed, rubbing her tired eyes with the heel of her palms.

"You wouldn't stop me?"

"I wouldn't stop you," she assured. "But if it makes any difference, I really, really, _really_ doubt that Demetri is sitting in bed thinking of ways to end our lives. If anyone is the most nervous in this house, it'd be him. Last I checked, he was sleeping like the dead."

"You went to check on him?"

"After how much you scared him, I felt obligated to. He's afraid that you'll hunt him down and kill him in his sleep. Your intimidation practices…" She chuckled, shaking her head a little.

"You said you _liked_ me scaring him."

"And I did—it turned me on, but I also had to make sure he wasn't going to die from a post-threat heart attack," Sylvia said with a smile. "When I checked on him, he was sleeping like a baby…which, now that I think on, I don't know why people use that phrase. Our baby has been just squirming all fucking night."

"Try singing to her," Oswald suggested.

"Why?"

"The doctors said it would calm her, remember?" He said pointedly. "It's written in all the books you bought, you might want to consider reading them too, you know."

"Okay, Father of the Year. Don't bite my head off," Sylvia returned, although she smiled in spite of herself. "When I bought those books, I didn't think you'd be reading them front and back."

"What else would I have done with them?"

"I don't know, throw them in a fire, maybe?"

"Why on Earth would I have done that?"

"I don't know," Sylvia said, leaning her head back against the headboard. "I'm not thinking straight…I'm too tired."

Oswald had a handful of the bed covers in his hands, and he fidgeted with them before Sylvia spoke again.

"I wanted to thank you," she said.

"For?"

"Not killing Fish."

"Yes, about that…"

"What?" Sylvia asked, her eyes closed as she rested.

"I wanted to talk to you about what happened while you were in the building with her. As her hostage." Oswald stated calmly. "She didn't hurt you any, did she?"

"Nope. In fact, she seemed hell bent on me not being harmed in any way, shape, or fashion." Sylvia returned, looking at him. "Fish isn't the same person she was before—she's different. Deadlier, I think, but more different. I kind of like her for that. Before this time around, she wanted my head. When I saw her, she looked like she wanted the same thing but she called me 'baby girl' when all was said and done."

"Did she, now."

"Don't sound so disappointed." Sylvia said lightly. "She may not have always been the best boss in town, but back then, I'd have done anything just to hear her call me that."

Oswald didn't say anything in response..

Sylvia suddenly gasped, and Oswald looked at her, startled. She chuckled, putting a hand on her side, "She's kicking me again."

"Well, she's a fighter." Oswald chortled.

"Wanna feel?"

"Sure."

Oswald scooted closer to her. Sylvia took his hand and placed his palm over her right side, just above her waistline, which had slowly been disappearing as the baby grew bigger within. At first, there was nothing, but Oswald smiled to himself when he felt what might have been a little foot meet his palm. It was so fucking sweet that it nearly brought him to tears.

"She knows it's her daddy," Sylvia whispered, kissing Oswald's cheek. "She's getting bigger…frankly, so am I. My waist is becoming something of a myth; I've gained ten fucking pounds."

"Maybe it's the cookies and pickles," He teased.

"Oh, now you've got jokes!" She returned, smirking at him. "If you're not careful about what you eat, babe, you'll be gaining another ten pounds too."

"Touché, my dear."

"If you want an appetite suppressant, I'll share my secret." Sylvia said, shuddering slightly. "The gynecologist gave me some birthing videos to watch so I know what to expect, and—let's just say—they're not the most flattering things. I've cut a man open from the stomach down and watched his intestines and other vital organs fall on my shoes, but _these_ videos make me want to be sick."

"What are they about?"

"Child birth—the labor, the screaming, and what will be me in another four or five months, give or take a few weeks. Speaking of screams…Did you visit Ed any in the past couple of weeks?" asked Sylvia.

"Not recently. I'm given to understand that you have?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And how was he?"

"He's a little more…what do you call it… 'acclimated'." Sylvia explained, nibbling on the inside of her cheek after finding the word best to describe him. "Oswald, when you were in Arkham, did you find it hard to sleep?"

"At first…but the screaming becomes something of a white noise after a while," Oswald answered seriously.

"Poor Ed…all alone."

"Being 'alone' isn't the worst part, trust me," Oswald reassured. "It's when the guards take you out of the cell to be a part of the social gathering that comes after. Being surrounded by lunatics, morons, and the idiotic staff—that was the hardest part…and being away from you."

Sylvia beamed, saying, "That's sweet of you to say, Ozzie."

Oswald moved to sit on his knees, facing her. Sylvia looked at him, curious of his behavior.

"I have to tell you something," He told her cryptically. "It's something I've been holding onto."

"What is it?"

"You're aware that there was a restraining order that I had signed," Oswald said unhappily. "An order that prohibited you from visiting me, and restricted any form of communication to coincide between us."

"You said you didn't remember why you'd signed it." Sylvia recalled, nodding with understanding. "That wouldn't surprise me, seeing as how Strange was—"

"No, that's just it."

"What is?"

Oswald said darkly, "I don't even remember signing anything."

Sylvia frowned, saying, "You don't?"

"I don't. In fact, everything from that time in Arkham is abstract, a blur, a dream—one that I couldn't escape." Oswald said quietly, glancing down at his hands. "Being away from you was painful. Had I remembered signing anything to keep you away from me, that'd be one thing. The fact that I did it without even remembering…"

He looked as though he was being torn apart. Sylvia took his hands in one of hers, and then touched his chin so that his eyes were gently coaxed to meet her own.

"Oswald, don't torture yourself."

"I didn't _want_ to be away from you." He said adamantly. "I never wanted that."

"I know."

"And what came after—the things I said—"

"Baby, you already apologized. That's enough." Sylvia told him gently. "Strange fucked with your mind—he's a psychiatrist with an incredible sense of accomplishment, but his _job_ is getting into people's heads. Signing that restraining order, saying what you did when you were brainwashed—I don't feel like any of that is an indicator of how you truly feel for me."

"Sylvia, everything I've done—"

" _Shh_."

Oswald looked at her uncomfortably, like he had plenty more to say. Instead, Sylvia kissed him, and he fell into that kiss, more than eager to feel comforted by her soft words.

"Here's what I know." Sylvia murmured. "You make me feel safe when I'm around you. You did everything you could to keep Gertrud safe—even though things didn't work out the way they should have, even with all the things you've endured, you've still allowed yourself to feel, to love. I can feel that, and your actions speak for themselves. I mean, you went to Arkham to keep me from going to Black Gate, and you've done everything in your power to protect me."

"Sylvia…"

"And," She continued, caressing his face between the palm of her hands, "I know you'll do the same thing when our daughter is born. Everything you do, you do with love. _That's_ what I know, and that's _all_ I care about."

Oswald smiled in spite of himself, saying, "Not in this lifetime or in the next will I ever truly understand how lucky I am to have you."

"Don't be so fucking modest, honey. You got me like you've gotten everything else," Sylvia told him. "You chased me."

"So has every other man or woman," Oswald reminded.

"Yeah, but you did it with class. And that makes _all_ the difference in the world." Sylvia said, winking at him. "Plus, it's hard to find a gentleman, never the less one who's driven by their emotions rather than their crotches. I wouldn't have enough hours in the day to list all the people who came at me with their dicks first."

"Well, with _that_ settled, I might take a nightcap." Oswald chuckled, shuffling out of bed. "Do you care for one?"

"If the nightcap is a cup of tea, I'd love some." Sylvia returned, smiling.

"Sugar and honey?"

"You know me well enough, surprise me."

"I can surprise you with no tea."

"That _would_ be a surprise," Sylvia chortled. "Nice callback."

"I thought so too," Oswald giggled. "I'll be right back. Love you."

"As I love you."

He beamed at her before leaving the bedroom. Sylvia repositioned her pillow and leaned against the headboard again. After a moment had passed, she said aloud: "You can come out now."

Opening the closet door, Demetri stepped out, looking more or less relieved.

"See?" Sylvia said, gesturing to the door through which Oswald had left.

"You gave him permission to kill me, though." Demetri reminded. "That's not helping me."

"He doesn't want to kill you—as long as you don't give him a reason to."

"You're pretty forthright when it comes to talking to him."

"Shut up, Demetri. I let you hide in the closet because you were afraid that he'd come to your bed and stab you in the face." Sylvia stated. "Now that you hear he's not out to rip your heart from your chest, you should be able to sleep in your own damn bed now…You didn't do anything while you were waiting in there, did you?"

"Like?"

"Like what a man would obviously do if I was laying in bed, _asleep_."

"I wasn't…jacking off...or anything, if that's what you're wondering." Demetri said uncomfortably.

"Well, that's a blessing in disguise, isn't it?"

"He _does_ suspect me though."

"Of course he does. We _all_ do, frankly. He doesn't want to kill you though because you've defected before. He just wants to make sure I'm safe. That we both are," Sylvia said, touching her belly. "This was my way of showing you that. Do you see that at least?"

"You couldn't have set up a meeting or something? That might have resulted in the same outcome."

"Like an intervention? Please…"

"It wouldn't have worked?"

"It wouldn't have, trust me. Oswald is as an honest criminal as they come, but he isn't sentimental when it comes to the staff," Sylvia stated. "That's why I had you hide, so he didn't know you were here, so that he would be as honest with me about you as possible. Now that you have your proof, I hope that you can sleep a little easier."

Demetri nodded, saying, "I doubt any other boss would have done this for me."

"You're definitely right about that." Sylvia said calmly. "That said, I suggest you get going. If Oswald comes back and sees you in the bedroom with me without a shirt on, you're more liable to get shot now than any other time."

"Right. Thank you, ma'am."

"Don't mention it. And son..."

Demetri glanced at her expectantly.

"Everything that you heard here doesn't go past that door, got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Get going."

Demetri quickly left the room, and Sylvia stood, closing the closet door. As she did, she heard Oswald enter the room, his feet shuffling the carpet.

"I saw Demetri in the hallway." He noted.

"He's as restless as the rest of us. Apparently, no one can sleep in this house."

Oswald joined her in bed, handing Sylvia her cup of tea, to which she gratefully thanked him. After they had their nightcap, sleep came easier.

**Chapter 27: A Change of Jobs**

"You have to move a certain way when you're on the damn stage," Sylvia told the dancers for the fifth time as she pressed 'pause' on the stereo system. "If you don't, people lose _interest_."

The dancers…or what she was forced to call them…were amateurs. That could be said already even before she'd started rehearsing with them. Sloppy footwork, messy handiwork, and don't even get her started on the random hip thrusts.

There were four altogether. Two men, two women.

Salt and Pepper were the girls—a soft, milky blonde and her friend, a chocolate brown-skinned brunette, respectively. They called themselves Salt and Pepper, their real names were not relevant nor necessary to know in Sylvia's mind.

Jack and Joel were the male dancers, brothers, both sturdy footed and while they were both _very_ muscular in the best way possible, they couldn't shimmy their hips in the slightest way.

All four 'dancers' had found themselves in the application process to become a Regular in Sylvia's performances (ideally every other night if the money was good), and while they'd been accepted, neither of them knew just how high Sylvia's standards were.

Because they were new to the scene, they knew Sylvia only by her stage name, the same one that the media as well as the police had coined her.

"We've rehearsed this a hundred times, Lark," complained Pepper, crossing her arms. "We've been practicing this routine so many times already."

"Obviously not _enough_ ," Sylvia told her crossly. "How old are you?"

"I'm twenty."

"And you?" Sylvia addressed the rest of them.

"Twenty."

"Twenty-one."

"Twenty."

Sylvia nodded, hearing their responses and said bluntly, "I am in my early damn thirties, _pregnant_ , and I'm dancing **marathons** around you, guys."

"Lark, it's not that we don't care," explained Jack, "we're tired."

"It's only been two fucking hours!" Sylvia snapped.

"It's been four, actually," Jack's brother chimed in respectfully.

"Save it." She ordered. "If you want to take a break, by all means. Take one. But who suffers if you all can't get your act together by Friday night, huh?"

"You…?" All four voiced simultaneously.

"No. _You_. Because _I_ know how to sing and dance. I will be fine. _You_ four will be out on the fucking streets," Sylvia minded irately. "So, go. Take a fucking break. Twenty minutes. But if you come back with less enthusiasm, we're going to have some _words_."

They nodded and quickly left for a drink, a drive-thru meal, what-have-you. Sylvia rolled her eyes, sitting on a pew at her bar as she rubbed the lower lumbar of her back, feeling it ache more than anything. It didn't 'hurt' per se, but it wasn't the most comfortable feeling in the world.

"They're learning."

Sylvia recognized the voice, saying callously, "They're learning, all right, Demetri. But if they learn any slower, I'll be fifty."

Demetri came up from behind her, offering a glass of water. She took it, sipping through a straw.

"Do you need an Ibuprofen?" He offered.

"No. I'm fine."

"Tylenol, then."

"I'm _fine_ , Demetri."

He nodded, crossing his arms and standing next to her mindfully. Sylvia looked at him curiously before she said softly, "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your job is to guard the club. Not to wait on me, hand and foot."

"Someone has to," Demetri said with a careful glance to her. "It's not like anyone else is."

"Meaning?"

"I figured it's the least I can do."

"The least you can do is your _job_."

"What if I wanted a different job?"

"We're not haggling." Sylvia said tiredly. "I'm in no mood to negotiate nor will I ever be."

"I'm not talking about a pay raise."

"You're talking about being some type of umbrella boy."

"Maybe? I hear it's a nice job."

"It really depends on who you ask," Sylvia said calmly. "I don't want one."

"You may not want one, but you need one."

"I'm fairly certain I don't."

"With all due respect, Miss Sylvia, I have to disagree."

Sylvia blinked, glancing at Demetri, taken aback. Calmly, but dangerously, she said, "Excuse me?"

Demetri took a step back when he heard the hostile edge to her tone; in fact, he took a few paces away from her.

"You're hiding it pretty well," Demetri told her quietly. "You're hurting though."

"It's a backache. I have them a lot—it's a monthly inconvenience for women."

"And you're impatient."

"Because people like you don't listen very well."

"And," Demetri continued as though she wasn't interrupting him, "I think you deserve one. You're on your feet all day, and you deal with..." (He scoffed when he watched the dancers argue amongst each other, trying to decide who was to blame for Sylvia's temper.) "…The rabble."

"Well, you're not wrong there."

"I think you'd deserve someone to wait on you, hand and foot." Demetri explained. "And you've done so much for me already, more than enough. It's the least I can do in order to pay back all that you've done."

Sylvia looked at him for a moment, a long time, actually. She stood, and said quietly, "How do I know that for certain?"

"What do you mean?"

"You _say_ you want to be there for me, to wait on me, to give back after all I've done for you. But how do I know that's the truth?" Sylvia questioned. "Maybe you want to get close to me, wait until I let my guard down, then betray me when I least expect it?"

Demetri gulped, "That's not what I want at all."

"I'd tell you to prove it to me, but we both know what you're willing to do in order to show you're loyal, don't we?"

"I'd do it a thousand times over."

"Please, don't." Sylvia said quickly, before he could take anything to break or use as a slicer.

"I know you don't trust me yet—"

"—You're very perceptive—"

"—But you said so yourself! How can you trust me if you don't give me a chance to prove that you can?" Demetri asked, holding his hands out in gesticulation.

"Well, that's a fairly good point. But the last umbrella boy I had died for me," Sylvia said quietly. "You're sweet, Demetri, but…I _don't_ need an umbrella boy."

"So a body guard?"

"I have several who can do the job and have been doing that job a lot longer than you, before you were born."

Demetri sighed, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Your job. Please, go do it." Sylvia ordered, gesturing to the door.

Like a dog being told he couldn't go for a walk, Demetri lowered his head and walked to the door where Dagger and Chilly were standing in as bouncers. Sylvia watched him go, and she raised her eyes to the ceiling, hoping that someone would either convince her that this boy was good enough to be in her inner circle, or just throw him a bone.

The dancers came back—all four of them looking more or less happy, or trying to look it anyway.

"From the top," Sylvia said. "And if I have to get on stage and show you how to do it again, I'm calling it a day. Got it?"

They agreed.

And they messed up a few more times.

Sylvia turned the music off, and said, "Get the hell out of my club. We'll try again tomorrow."

The 'dancers' left.

Frustrated, Sylvia sat at the bar, contemplating whether or not she wanted to take the risk of drinking herself under the table. Forget that she was pregnant…

"Demetri."

The man heard his name and quickly came to her, standing as such.

"Do me a favor, would you?"

"Sure. Anything!"

"Go to the nearest McDonald's, and get me a whopper." Sylvia said, smiling at him sincerely.

"Extra pickles?"

"Yes, _please_."

"Yes, Ma'am." Demetri said, nodding vigorously before he left the club. As he did, Oswald came inside, noting the man's existence before walking up to Sylvia, who smiled at him lovingly.

"Where is _he_ heading off to?" He asked suspiciously.

"McDonalds," Sylvia answered.

Oswald raised his eyebrows curiously at her.

She explained, "I'm hungry."

"Angry-hungry or bored-hungry?"

"A little bit of both."

Oswald chuckled, "I guess he's useful after all."

"No doubt." Sylvia returned, grinning broadly at him.

It wasn't until later that day before Oswald was able to have a quiet evening with his beloved. Dinner had passed, and it was well past eight o'clock. He and Sylvia had dressed down to their pajamas—him in his black top and bottoms; Sylvia, in her baby blue silk night slip and matching robe.

There was silence in the living room, aside from the crackling fireplace, the low hum of the ceiling fan above, and the soft classical music playing on the radio.

Sylvia lied on the couch, her head in Oswald's lap, her face buried in his stomach as she rested her eyes. Oswald laced his fingers through her tangles of ginger hair, the contrast of it to his pale hands was somewhat hypnotizing. The other hand gently traced unremarkable designs on her shoulder.

"I went to the school," Sylvia said hoarsely, "to see if I can become a part of the staff."

Oswald turned his gaze from the locks of her hair to her eyes, and said lightly, "And how did that go?"

"Not well." She returned, looking up at him. "The staff and principal reacted just as I thought they would. 'No positions available', or so they say, and the idea of holding a dance class outside of their proper educational regime was non-negotiable. According to Principal Donner, the children have an 'efficient-enough' dance coach, namely Mrs. Bunapart, and he doesn't see why any extracurricular activity such as that would be worth the fuss."

"You tried," Oswald said supportively. "It's their loss."

"Not their loss. The children's. The kids who want to be a part of something but were turned away because they weren't the cheerleading-type."

"I imagine you've already gone to the Board of Education…?"

"Yes, I have."

"And?"

"No one wants to replace Mrs. Bunapart." Sylvia returned, rolling her eyes. "The woman is almost sixty, maybe older. The best she can do is the 'sprinkler' move, and apparently, that's the only thing the school feels is necessary to win any dance competitions."

"Maybe it's for the best."

Sylvia looked up at him curiously, lying on her back: "What's for the best?"

"The school turning you down." Oswald answered. "You do enough as it is. You run your club; you have a dance ensemble of your own—"

"—You mean the four people who call themselves 'dancers', but can't figure out a four-step cadence? Yeah… _that's_ an ensemble." Sylvia scoffed, smirking up at him.

"They'll improve."

"You have more faith in them than I do, then."

"Not to mention you're doing more with the Paddock Family…"

"Mr. Paddock is deaf and almost blind," Sylvia said defensively. "You said you didn't mind if I got more involved with the Family."

"You're basically taking over."

"So what if I am?" She said smoothly, sitting up. "Mr. Paddock is practically dying. He doesn't have a son or daughter to take over the family, no blood relatives of any kind. Who does he trust to run the Family? Me. Who does he have left if not me?"

Oswald said coolly, "Of course you realize that once you become a Don, you will be unable to operate as my second-in-command?"

"Because my affiliation with the Paddock Family would somehow corrupt my objective point of view?" Sylvia presumed smoothly, smirking at him. "I'm nothing if not objective."

"Before you take his place as the Don, I'd seriously sleep on it."

"If you prefer that I not be affiliated with the Paddock Family, I won't opt for it."

"Just like that?"

" _Just_ like that," Sylvia submitted softly.

She lied back down so her head was on his lap, looking up at him beautifully, saying, "Being the leader of the Paddock Family is less than important to me if being one will make you unhappy. They're a bunch of old farts, anyway, looking to make an extra buck. But who knows who will take Isaac's place once he is no longer able to operate as their Don."

"If they attempt to go behind your back, I imagine they'll meet the same end as young Anderson." Oswald mused, smirking down at her when Sylvia's doting expression changed to one of guilt.

She pointed up at him with a remark, "Don't poke fun, Oz—he _deserved_ to die."

"I know he did, I just love watching you become so defensive when he's mentioned." Oswald said shamelessly. "It's kind of fun, actually."

She rolled her eyes and closed them, living in the moment as Oswald continued to slowly comb his fingers through her hair; from her head to the arm of the couch where the ends of her ginger locks cascaded and dangled over the edge.

"How's your brother?" Oswald asked conversationally.

"He's fucking a reporter," Sylvia answered nonchalantly without opening her eyes.

Oswald's eyes widened at her indifference to the fact, seemingly stumped as to what to say next. At that point, Sylvia opened her eyes, a crooked smile ghosting its way over her pink lips.

"I'd hope he'd have kept his high standards after Lee but apparently, they've just sunk lower than the Titanic." Sylvia stated.

"He's _your_ brother."

"And he's _your_ brother-in-law," Sylvia said, poking the brim of his nose with the same teasing tone. "You married into the family, so that makes him your brother too, you know."

"I don't claim him."

"Unfortunately, I do."

"That makes you responsible for him."

"Undoubtedly," Sylvia returned, smirking still. "He's not the 'friends with benefits' type though. He _thinks_ he is, but he'll become attached, if he hasn't already. I don't know Vale enough but I trust her as far as I can throw her."

"And how far is that?"

"Not far at all."

Oswald smiled with their light banter, and he started massaging the back of her neck. Soft pressure around the nape, in small concentric circles.

Sylvia said lightly, "Lee's back."

"Dr. Thompkins, you mean."

"Mm-hm. Bullock called me the other day to tell me the 'good news'."

"Compared to the other Medical Examiners, I think it could be classified as a 'good news'," Oswald said politely. "I've only spoken to her a few number of times, but in those moments, I think she's fairly professional. Seems like a good candidate for the job."

"She's too nice for Gotham." Sylvia said, closing her eyes again. "The city will ruin her. I wished she'd left and never came back. And not because seeing her will make Jim feel terrible. She's a good egg—better to drop out of the race before the other players run her over, you know?"

"Why did Harvey call you?" asked Oswald curiously.

"He keeps me in the know. Tells me things that might be important for you and me to know in the long run," said Sylvia carelessly.

"And—dare I ask—what is the exchange for that?"

"He tells _me_ things. I tell _him_ things."

"Like what for example?"

Sylvia opened her eyes when she heard his paranoia. She saw it in the green hue of his blue eyes, the way the suspicion was slowly creeping in. Having heard that tone a number of times, Sylvia slowly sat up, stood on her knees, then straddled Oswald with a sense of accomplishment once having done so. Oswald watched her, perplexed, but curious.

"Whether Barnes likes it or not, Harvey and I have something of a sibling bond…almost a hate-and-love relationship," said Sylvia gently. "Harvey knows that _I_ know pretty much every skell that runs around the sewers, and for the information he extracts from me, I like to know pertinent information. Some of it seems irrelevant, almost _useless_. Really, I like information. Much like _you_. Sometimes, I tell him a few things of our operations; in return, he tells me where to look for traitors, trying to sneak in through security. Sometimes, it's so I know just _who_ has returned to Gotham and whether or not they'll be making trouble for me and the rest of my family."

Oswald looked at her, clearly disgruntled that she was making deals under the table with one of the detectives, but then again—who was he to chastise her about making deals with the GCPD.

"Namely Dr. Leslie Thompkins," said Sylvia. "She was the light in my brother's life, and when he was carted off to Black Gate, she left the city. Allegedly, to never return. But here we are."

"And you suspect she is up to something?"

"I suspect nothing." She admitted. "It's not that I don't trust her to do something bad to my brother. Or that I think she's looking into joining a cult or something. But Jim's record of 'exes gone bad' isn't long, but it's fairly extensive. I mean, look at Barbara Kean."

"Noted." Oswald returned, looking up at Sylvia as she stood on her knees to reposition and almost loomed over him for a second until she sat back down, wriggling a little.

"And here's another tidbit of information," Sylvia said mischievously. "Barbara and Tabitha have a new source of entertainment. A hypnotist, by the name of Jervis Tetch."

"A hypnotist?" Oswald said, unimpressed.

"Illusionists _are_ moneymakers, Oz. Just because you don't like magic doesn't mean the rest of us are opposed to it." Sylvia teased.

"Have you seen his act?"

"No."

"Have you even met him?"

"Nope."

"How do you know he's good then?" Oswald asked.

"I don't know. I'm going off from what Barbara told me. He thrilled the audience, got a few people under his hypnotic spell; they pretended to be chickens, cows, birds, and dogs. He snapped his fingers, and everyone zapped back to their normality…never knowing they'd been hypnotized in the beginning. It's like a superpower, don't you think?"

"I'll believe it when I see it," scoffed Oswald.

"Maybe you will."

"Meaning?"

"I'm booking him," Sylvia said with an impish lift at the corner of her mouth. "I'm thinking 'Friday night'."

"You sing on Fridays." Oswald reminded.

"Every Friday night, yes, but I want to mix it up a little."

Oswald looked at her sadly, with big, puppy dog eyes. And Sylvia smiled in spite of herself.

"You don't think it's a good idea?" She guessed.

"On a contrary, you have me all wrong," He said apologetically. "I think it's a swell idea."

"But?" Sylvia encouraged, gesturing to him to do so.

"Personally…selfishly…I like to hear you sing." Oswald explained, smiling despite his own fault. "It's the highlight of my week."

"You've not missed one performance," She noted, grinning widely. "So fine, I'll book Tetch on a Thursday and keep my normal Friday routine. Acceptable?"

"More than." Oswald returned happily, cracking a grin.

With the compromise settled, they kissed on it. Lips lingered, and Oswald initiated a deeper kiss; Sylvia reciprocated.

Oswald moved his hands inside her robe, his fingers briefly lifting the hem of her slip so he could fully grasp her legs. His thumbs massaged the innermost side of her thighs; her calm moan vibrating inside his mouth, letting him know she was enjoying it.

"There's a conference being held tomorrow," Sylvia told him in between kisses, after which she softly giggled when Oswald moved their positions so he was lying on top of her.

"By whom exactly?"

"Who do you think?" Sylvia returned smartly but a soft moan escaped her after Oswald opened her robe, the sash falling to the wayside as he moved between her legs, and pressed his lower half against her. "Aubrey James…he's announcing the candidacy of a new mayor."

Oswald sprinkled kisses from her collar bone, to her throat, and then to her ear, at which point, she shuddered. He murmured, "He's a hack."

"Obviously." Sylvia returned, smirking at him.

She felt his hard-on slowly humping against her panties. Through their stimulating conversation, Oswald had been thinking of other things to do whilst sitting in the living room, Sylvia's head so close to his lap and another viable part of him. Sensing his desire, _feeling_ it too, Sylvia wrapped her legs around his waist so as to grant him more open access.

She said, "Do you want to keep talking about this or pause the conversation for another time?"

"What do _you_ think?" Oswald returned cockily.

"I think you want to keep talking about it."

Oswald looked at her pointedly before Sylvia laughed, shortly after pulling him into a kiss that made his yearning for her intensify. At that point, there was no further use for a 'quiet' evening.

**Chapter 28: Mayoral Candidates**

The townspeople of Gotham made a march towards the conference being held at the town square, a centrality in Gotham where several media vans were parked, and a podium on which all of Gotham's delegates and politicians stood, present for the announcement of the new mayor.

Leading the people was Oswald Cobblepot and his wife, Sylvia. On Oswald's right was Butch, his usual tag-a-long, and on Sylvia's left was Demetri, who had inexplicably obtained Sylvia's favor and had moved up from being a bouncer at _Lean on Vee_ 's to being her constant.

Aubrey James was speaking into the microphone as they steadily approached the conference. His voice was no where near cathartic and his words were hardly politically correct.

"Since the death of Galavan," Aubrey James stated, "The office has been governed by the elected officials standing behind me, as you see them. This city desperately needs experienced, seasoned leadership. And so, in their wisdom, they have persuaded me—much against my will—to resume the office of mayor until elections can be organized in the next year…"

" _STOP_!" Oswald ordered, his voice nearly echoing against the buildings surrounding them.

The crowd dispersed, all turning to the new attendees, all of whom looked disgruntled. Oswald, on the other hand, was mischievous.

Sylvia smiled, waving at James and Mrs. James, who stood just to the right of her husband, apparently offering what little support she could give.

"This proceeding is a sham," Oswald told the crowd, approaching the podium.

"Security!" James shouted, " _Remove_ this criminal!"

Immediately, Sylvia stood slightly in front of Oswald, who, in turn, gently moved her back.

"'Criminal?'" Oswald repeated, glancing at the security officials who had promptly obeyed their orders, then he turned on James, speaking to only the people while still facing James, if only to prove a point. "I was jailed _illegally_ by a corrupt system. A system that was put into place by _this_ man" (he indicated James appropriately) "who has the audacity to put himself right back in the position that he has brought so much shame and dishonor to."

" _How dare you_ ," growled James.

"No, how dare _you_ ," Oswald countered, stepping towards him, "waltz up there and announce yourself as mayor. The people demand to have a say into who will represent them, who will _protect_ them!"

"Yeah! Yeah!" Multitudes of praise and agreement sounded off from the crowd standing behind and around Sylvia, who looked at them with a satisfied expression.

She hadn't expected the people to be so quick in their agreement. Then again, didn't she say that her husband was charismatic? This certainly was a nod to that.

As the people hurrahed, waving their hands emphatically to Oswald's statement, Oswald turned to face the crowd, putting Aubrey James in the background.

"It was I—and I alone—who drove out the monsters that plagued our city!" Oswald told the crowd.

"Oh _please_!" James retorted.

Oswald responded, saying, "And where were you, then, while I faced peril at the hands of those _abominations_?"

"Probably at home with his head in a box," Sylvia muttered, only realizing she'd said this louder than intended when a few of the people in the crowd tittered.

" _Sir_!"

Oswald turned towards the voice that addressed him, and without needing to look, Sylvia already knew the owner of that voice. It was Valerie Vale, already at the scene and with a microphone at the ready.

"Are you challenging James' appointment to office?" Vale questioned eagerly.

"I most certainly am!" Oswald replied emphatically.

Butch and Sylvia glanced at each other, eyebrows raised. Well, _this_ was certainly a turn of events!

"Better go up there," Butch muttered, gesturing to the stage as Oswald made his way up to the surface.

"Why do I have to go?" Sylvia questioned as Butch egged her forward. "He's doing fine by himself."

"James' wife is up there."

"James' wife can suck my balls," Sylvia hissed, but she rolled her eyes when Butch nudged her so she stepped forward and stood on the podium alongside Oswald.

She smiled in spite of herself when he looked at her with new love in his eyes. Then, seriously, he grabbed a microphone attached to the podium, and addressed the crowd: "To govern this city, one must be _legally_ elected"— (He pointedly glared at James, who returned it.)—"which is why I, Oswald Cobblepot, announce my candidacy for the office of Mayor! And I demand—and the _people_ demand—that an emergency election be held forthwith!"

Sylvia smiled and leaned into Oswald and kissed his cheek.

Oswald looked all smug while peering over at James before turning to Sylvia and sending her an appreciative smile.

The crowd chanted "Cobblepot" over and over again, their proclaim deafening. What came after were the reporters making their rounds to different people in the crowd, questioning them about who they were ready to vote for, and why. There was discussion of when the election would be held—allegedly, a few months from now—and where it all would take place.

Oswald decided that he'd indulge the people's insistence to talk to him personally. They wanted to find out what he would be ready to offer as far as promises go when holding the office, and he joined Butch on the ground. Meanwhile, Sylvia stayed on the stage; Demetri quickly joined her.

He handed her a bottled water and she gratefully took it, taking a gulp before someone addressed her.

"Mrs. Cobblepot, is it?"

It was not Aubrey James standing near her, but his wife, Mrs. James.

Mrs. James was at least a foot taller than she with an aged face and a tight bun. Although she might have been beautiful in high school, she was now wrinkled and a little saggy around her jaw line and eyes. Dark amber eyes, brunette hair tied too tightly in a bun, and her smile lines were something of the past. Dressed in a bright orange coat over a beige jumpsuit, Mrs. James looked strict, but a breeze no more than five miles per hour might blow her over.

"Mrs. Cobblepot, _it is_." Sylvia returned smartly.

"I don't think we've officially met," Mrs. James stated calmly, although there was a tear in her politeness. It could have been mistaken for restrained nicety but Sylvia could tell otherwise.

"Not officially, no." She agreed. "But just because we've not met doesn't mean I don't know who you are. Just, as I am sure, you know who _I_ am."

"So pleasantries are out of order?"

"Well, if we're being politically correct, they were never mandatory," Sylvia replied pointedly.

Demetri, who stood at her side, glanced between Mrs. James and his mistress, offering only a small smile of discomfort as Mrs. James gave him a steely-eyed once-over.

"Let's not stand on ceremony, then." Mrs. James sneered. "You're a known felon, Mrs. Cobblepot. Everyone in Gotham knows that."

"Allegedly. I've never been imprisoned in Gotham." Sylvia said lightly.

"I would have to disagree with that."

"You can disagree all you want, ma'am, but—"

"You've been arrested before."

"Pardon?"

"When you were younger."

"When I was a teenager," corrected Sylvia with a small smile. "Kids will be kids. My face is in the newspaper from when I was a teenager, but aside from that, I've never been arrested. But since you're the one who brought it up—everyone knows _your_ mistakes too, so why not cut the crap and stop trying to intimidate me with my own past."

"You're a criminal," said Mrs. James, stepping towards her. "You're a _felon_. So is your husband. You, two, will _not_ win this election. You will be embarrassed, mortified by what is to come if you try to intervene, and you will wish your husband never tried to run against mine."

"Are we really doing this?" Sylvia said incredulously. "Comparing your husband's travesties to...to whatever you think Oswald or I might have done? _Seriously_? I mean, I'm game, but if you want to spill some real tea, sister, I've got a thousand pitchers." (She stepped closer to Mrs. James, who started to look unhinged.) "But being in an open area, I doubt you'd tell anyone just how corrupted your family _really is_ , so how about we save the mud-slinging for when we are in a bar, and our dicks are hanging out!"

"Well! I never!" Mrs. James gasped, stepping back. She addressed the crowd, saying, "Everyone! _Everyone_! This woman just threatened me! This woman—"

"You tried to threaten me first!" Sylvia snapped, glaring at her. "It's not _my_ fault that I'm better at dishing out threats than you!"

"How dare you," Aubrey James growled, stepping forward and in front of his wife, "threaten my beloved! But why should I be so surprised? You've done less than honorable things in—"

"Seriously?" Sylvia questioned. "If any one is to blame for the monsters running amuck, it's not Strange—it's you. _You_ supplied the bodies. You're the phenomenal dick who decided he wanted to put all the baddies in Arkham; they all ended up in Indian Hill, more fucked up than they started out with!"

"I did not turn them into what they are now."

"You _made_ Arkham what it is and it was _you_ who put Strange in charge of it all. The people in Arkham are _your_ responsibility."

"You're friends with half of them!" James snapped. "What does that say about _you_?"

"Like _your_ friends aren't fucked up either?" Sylvia retorted, gesturing to him.

"You're out of order—"

"I'm out of order? _Your_ wife came at me first, talking about how I'm going to be mortified and humiliated by the end of this election. What the fuck do you call that—a peace offering!"

The crowd gasped.

"I said no such thing!" Mrs. James exclaimed, glancing embarrassingly at the news reporters who flashed their cameras, scribbled furiously on their notepads, and pushed their audio tape recorders in front of other reporters.

Meanwhile, Oswald and Butch stood near the back, looking on.

Butch leaned into Oswald, saying, "Should we put to stop to this?"

"I think she's doing fine by herself, to be honest." Oswald replied calmly. "Personally, out of my own self-preservation, I am by no means willing to clamor to the podium and get in the middle of this fight."

"Those women are really going at it," Butch muttered. "How can this be good for your campaign?"

"The battle of the First Ladies," said Oswald sheepishly. "It'd happen eventually. Mayoral Candidates try to outdo each other. Meanwhile the families of each mayoral candidate try to show that _their_ family is better."

"Sylvia's swearing at the former mayor of Gotham," Butch reminded. "How's that proving you're better?"

"Have you been observing at all, Butch? Look at how the people respond."

Sure enough, as Mrs. James and Sylvia were arguing at it on the stage—or rather Mrs. James trying to look like the victim while also turning out to be the pathetic actress while Sylvia roasted the hell out of her facade—the crowd, although surprised by Sylvia's crass approach, seemed to dote on her more.

"Your father was a corrupted hooligan," Mrs. James managed through gasps and stutters, pointing at Sylvia.

"My _father_ was the best fucking District Attorney this city ever had. It's my _mother_ who was corrupted and a complete psychopath," Sylvia said harshly. "If you're going to slander my family's name, at least get your fucking facts straight, you ignorant little twat!"

"Now, see, here, you can't talk to my wife like that," Aubrey James argued.

"She started the argument, _Aubrey_ ," Sylvia sneered. "If she couldn't take the heat, she shouldn't have lit the match."

"You're out of order, Cobblepot!"

"No, _you're_ out of order, and you're out of your depth!"

Butch said quietly to Oswald, "Are you sure we can't intervene. It's getting a little out of hand—out of control, I mean."

"She's not out of control, trust me," said Oswald with a cunning smile. "She's playing the game."

"If you say so."

"You are a liar, a deceiver, and a—" Mrs. James began, but she was stammering to find another word.

"Fuck you, Dina," Sylvia snapped, "I am a _lot_ of things, but I am _not_ a liar. You know what, I'm done with this conversation. It's over, and I'm walking away. You two are so fucking petty, I can't even bother expending another ounce of energy on you guys."

"You threaten my family," said Aubrey James, as his wife cried behind him, "And expect to just walk away?"

"I've done nothing more than say my piece," said Sylvia. She looked at the cops, adding, "Officers, have I done anything illegal?"

They shook their heads.

"See?" Sylvia told James. "Nothing. Now you and your pretend-to-cry Wife can leave, knowing I mean you no physical or emotional harm."

"I'm not going anywhere," James snapped.

"Then stay here. What the fuck do I care? I've got an appointment to keep, so, excuse me. Demetri…" Sylvia said, waving him over.

Ready to help in anyway possible, Demetri took her hand and helped her down the stairs. Sylvia moved past the news reporters, all of whom stormed towards the podium to get another quote from the James' couple, and stopped when she saw Oswald and Butch.

Behind her, the crowd was screaming louder 'COBBLEPOT, COBBLEPOT', a sure fire response to the argument that had happened on stage and would surely be broadcasted on air for all the voters to see.

She kissed Oswald briefly on the lips.

"You did beautifully, Pigeon," He whispered.

"I thought that'd be one for the show," Sylvia snickered. "I'm going to the obstetrician. I'll be back by lunch."

"Be careful, darling."

"Always am," she sighed, and she left with Demetri, who opened her car door before he settled into the driver's seat.

**Chapter 29: Bounty**

" _The baby is doing_ fine, _Mrs. Cobblepot. You're twenty-six weeks in…_ "

Sylvia recalled what the obstetrician told her. She rubbed her belly gently, feeling the bump beneath her shirt. Demetri was driving her to Jim Gordon's house. The worry she had for Ivy Pepper's disappearance had gone from an unsettling acknowledgement to one of deep concern.

" _Your baby's hearing is fully developed…Has she been reacting to sound?" The doctor asked._

" _Yes, especially loud ones. Door slams, loud voices…gunfire."_

"Gun fire _?"_

" _Hypothetically speaking, of course," Sylvia had quickly responded to assuage the doctor's concern._

" _What kind of music do you listen to?"_

" _Mostly classical. She seems to like Vivaldi and Tchaikovsky."_

" _She'll move in rhythm with the music. Have you felt it?"_

" _Yes, I have." Sylvia answered, knowing this to be true. "She likes when either I or her father sing to her."_

" _That's good to hear. Babies often start having a pattern of sleeping and waking. Have you felt any of this?"_

" _She wakes up in the middle of the night, sometimes while punching me in the ribs," Sylvia said tiredly, smiling though in spite of her exhaustion. "I think she's something of a night owl."_

" _Are you?"_

" _Yes."_

" _Your daughter is following_ your _habits, Mrs. Cobblepot. If you want to stop that incessant kicking in the middle of the night, I suggest going to bed at a normal time."_

" _I'll consider it."_

" _Yes...yes…Are you experiencing any heart burn or indigestion?"_

" _I've stopped eating tacos—does that help?"_

" _So that's a 'yes' then."_

" _Not one for joking, are you, doctor?"_

" _Not really."_

" _I can tell."_

Sylvia smiled as Demetri put on the radio to assuage the silence. While Demetri had become comfortable in the past month to Sylvia's occasional quiet moments, he seemed unable to tolerate it very long. After adjusting the knob on the radio for a period of time, there was a station that featured more talk than music; this seemed to be a station that Demetri favored out of all of them.

"Is this okay?" Demetri asked nervously.

"It's fine." Sylvia said, nodding.

" _Have you considered any names for the child?" asked the doctor conversationally as he slathered cold gel over her stomach and pressed the cold surface of the transducer above her belly button._

" _Not yet." Sylvia answered, as she watched the figure of her daughter appear on the CPU display, the essence of arms and legs slowly moving. "We've been a little busy recently."_

" _It'll get busier when she gets here."_

" _I_ know _that." Sylvia scoffed._

 _After a moment of tension-filled silence, the doctor said lightly, "What names do_ you _like, Mrs. Cobblepot?"_

" _I like Celeste…Allegra…maybe Diana…"_

" _Diana is nice."_

" _Diana is a thought. I wouldn't name her that though."_

" _Why not?"_

" _That's my mother's name."_

" _Do I dare to ask why?"_

" _My mother was a cunt, and she's dead," said Sylvia lightly—her nonchalance regarding the matter made the doctor look at her curiously, although a bit taken aback. "She never wanted children. I suppose that's the difference between us. She didn't want her kids._ I do. _"_

" _Well, I suppose this baby is lucky then."_

" _Lucky how?"_

" _She's going to be born to two people who already love her very much," said the doctor appreciatively. "I couldn't ask for anything more."_

Demetri followed the road in central Gotham, his eyes glancing left and right at the cars in front of them, but his glance moved quickly to Sylvia, who was in her own trance. There was no indication that she was watching to make sure he was taking all the right turns, but at the same time, he had no intention of disturbing her.

Still…

"Miss Sylvia, is this the road?" asked Demetri timidly.

Sylvia shook her head, shaking herself out of her own deep reverie, and looked around quickly.

"Take the next left," she said gently. "After, you'll take another left, and then Jim's place is about three apartment buildings down."

"Sure, sure." Demetri responded quickly, slowly turning the wheel as he markedly followed through with her directions.

Sylvia watched the road for a moment before turning to Demetri, saying, "What do you think about this election?"

"What do I think?" He repeated uncertainly. "I'm not…"

"It's not a trick, kid. I just want to know what you think. And please, be brutal."

Demetri chuckled nervously, his uncertainty no more put to rest than his weary thoughts. After turning the next left, he parked a few spaces from the building that Sylvia referenced as her brother's apartment complex, turned off the car, and sat back in his seat, hands still on the steering wheel.

He licked his lips warily, a little perspiration dotting his forehead.

"Well, Miss Sylvia…I think that this election will be one that the people will never forget."

"Wow, what a good answer," Sylvia mused. "A chickenshit one, but a good answer. Come along."

"Do you want me to come in?"

"Not unless you don't want to."

"It's Detective Gordon…he won't mind if I—"

"He's my _brother_ , 'Mitri." (The use of his nickname she'd given him made Demetri smile a little.) "And he's not a detective anymore," said Sylvia carelessly as she opened the door to the complex. "If he has any objection to you being with me…well, it won't matter because I'm not here on pleasure anyway. Just business."

"Business, huh?"

"Yes, so come along."

"Alright." Demetri said, nodding, and he entered through the door right behind her.

They walked a number of stairs, and Sylvia stopped at the door, knocking sharply. There was a shift of movement, then the door opened and revealed Jim Gordon, appearing less than thrilled that Sylvia was popping in again.

"You're here." He said flatly.

"I'm here." She returned, smirking. "Got anyone in there I might need to know about? Are all people dressed and presentable?"

"Don't be coy, Vee. It's just me." Jim said, stepping aside to allow entry to the two people standing at the door. When he locked it, Jim glanced over Demetri, saying, "Who are you, then?"

"Jim, this is Demetri." Sylvia introduced as she sauntered into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. "Demetri, meet the _infamous_ Bounty Hunter, James Gordon."

"Your reputation proceeds you," Demetri said hastily, offering his hand.

"Thanks." Jim grunted, and he shook it although he looked him over again, adding, "You're pretty young…"

"I'm eighteen. An adult."

"You think so, I bet," Jim said hoarsely, nodding respectfully but walking away with wide eyes and a low whistle. "Have a seat. Have…a drink, I guess."

Sylvia smiled innocently as she opened a can of Diet Coke, handing a Dr. Pepper to Demetri, who—after glancing honestly at Jim and once the former detective sent a glance of approval—opened the can and downed three large gulps as though he hadn't drank anything in a few days.

The three sat in the living room, a coffee table separating Jim from his guests.

"So," Jim sighed. "I imagine you're here to talk about Vale."

"About your fuck buddy? No thanks," Sylvia chuckled. "I'm too aware of what you and Miss Thang do on the regular, and I don't care to hear the deets."

"So if you're not here to criticize my relationship with Vale…"

"I'm here on business."

"Business?"

"Yep." Sylvia nodded, after drinking from her can. "You're a bounty hunter, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"I need you to find someone for me."

"Why don't you get your imps to do it for you?" asked Jim, sending a look of disgruntled animosity towards Demetri who pretended not to see it.

"They have their own work to take care of. And _you_ don't have anything on the pay roll at the moment, do you?" Jim said nothing so Sylvia added, "That's what I thought."

"Who are you looking for?" asked Jim seriously, leaning back in his seat. "Someone who didn't pay you? Maybe someone who popped off?"

"A girl. Ivy Pepper."

"Mario's kid?"

"Mm-hm."

Jim sighed, leaning back in his seat. "Why are you looking for her?"

"It's nothing to do with you, I can promise you that. She was working for me—"

"You have _kids_ working for you!" Jim exclaimed, standing up.

"I have a _lot_ of people working for me recently," Sylvia said calmly as she remained sitting, looking up at him. "Ivy's pretty skilled at spying. It was she, who found out that Delilah was my spy. Strange's monsters came to town, she disappeared. A few months have passed, and she's still missing. I want to know where she's gone, and I want to know who the kidnappers are, if any. For that, I'll pay you." (Jim slowly sat down.) "If I knew what kind of danger she was in, or who might have taken her, I would name my price. Since I don't know the risk, you get to name _yours_. Fair enough?"

Jim frowned, clenching his fists together as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He peered down at the coffee table, mindful of his own theories about what might have happened to an orphan like Ivy Pepper.

Demetri cleared his throat, leaned to the side so he spoke only to Sylvia, and said, "Do you care if I step out….?"

"Sure. Go to the car. I'll be there shortly." Sylvia empathized, patting his wrist.

He nodded dutifully then left the apartment. Jim looked after him, then turned to her in response.

"Is that the one that cut his arm open to prove something to you?" Jim questioned, obviously unhappy.

"The same."

"I'm guessing he's proven himself to you?"

"To me, yes. Oswald's still a little finicky 'bout him."

"Not to spin it to his credit," said Jim suspiciously, "but I can see why. He doesn't look like a trustworthy type."

"Do any of us, really?" Sylvia responded, understanding. "So far, he's been supportive, very encouraging, and rather helpful."

"Why do you want to find Ivy so badly? Why not try finding her yourself?" asked Jim briskly. "You have all these skells _bowing_ down at your feet, ready to kiss your hand when the opportunities come knocking. If you have them search Gotham far and wide, I'm sure they'd be able to find her—and it'd be cheaper for you."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," chuckled Sylvia, smiling at him despite his patronizing tone. "You used to be a detective. A very good one—still are, if you applied yourself, and got over the fact that you blame the GCPD for whatever happened with Lee…but let's not get into that argument…"

Jim's face fell, and she noticed.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"Lee's back."

"I know she is."

"How do _you_ know?" Jim asked, his expression, blank.

"Harvey told me."

"Harvey didn't tell _me_." Jim retorted, a little snarl creeping to his upper lip. "I went to the GCPD to get paid and there she was—popped up out of no where."

"He probably didn't want you to know."

"She took the job of M.E. and he didn't think I'd find out," Jim scoffed. "I'm feeling the confidence _now_."

"Get off the high road, James. We both know how much Lee meant to you, how much she still means to you," said Sylvia darkly. "You want to prove it? tell her now."

"She's got a fiancé."

"So? _Fuck him_. So she has an engagement to attend—Fuck it. Fuck him and fuck anyone who thinks they can stand between you and Lee—you two were the **golden** couple. Shit, I mean, I thought it would take more than an imprisonment and a miscarriage to break up the two of you!" Sylvia said, getting to her feet and gesticulating to the door. "You want Lee? If you want her _—_ go _get_ her: literally, no one is stopping you. Fuck, you know, she's probably waiting for you to say something to her anyway, you might as well tell her what you feel!"

"It's not like that," Jim said gruffly, standing to meet her—incidentally, looming over her due to their height difference. "She's moved on. So…so have I."

"Yeah, you've moved on," Sylvia returned, unconvinced. "You're fucking a news reporter, hiding in a broken down apartment that barely has any hot water, living paycheck to paycheck by bringing in Strange's experimental left overs, and you say you've 'moved on'."

Jim frowned, looking away, hands on his hips as he strode away from Sylvia for a few minutes.

"You still love her, Jim," said Sylvia, her voice softened. "You're pretending you don't so it doesn't hurt as much but I _know_ you do! Either let her know what you're feeling or…"

"Or what?"

"Let her go."

"I thought you said you came here on business." Jim said gruffly, looking at her pointedly.

"I did. You're the one who brought her up." Sylvia reminded. "My issue is finding Ivy. Yours is telling Lee that you love her before she finally ties the knot with whomever the fuck this guy is. Out of those two problems, which of the two is the easiest to solve first, Detective?"

"They're different issues."

"Maybe. But that doesn't take away from the fact that you're too chickenshit to tell Lee what you really feel because _you_ think she'll reject you. And you leave empty-handed, forever alone in this world or maybe the next—if you believe in that sort of thing."

"I'll want the same amount for finding Pepper as the GCPD pays me for the monsters," Jim barked. "Five-thousand dollars."

"Done." Sylvia agreed starkly.

With the fight looming between them, an argument clearly unresolved and Jim no longer in the mood to indulge, Sylvia started walking out of the apartment, but stopped the moment there was a knock on the door.

"Get behind me." Jim cautioned.

"Don't have to tell _me_ twice."

As she did, Jim approached the door, and opened it. Outside was a man with a top hat placed delicately atop tangles of smooth, wavy medium brown hair, a mustache and well-trimmed beard of the same color. He had the darkest pair of eyes Sylvia had ever seen, and when he addressed Jim, he said happily, "Tea?"

In two hands, he held a thin plastic cup filled with the aforementioned contents. Jim surveyed him with an indifferent expression, then he stepped aside so that the gentleman could enter. When he did, he came in contact with Sylvia, who eyed him suspiciously.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, sir," the man said with a tone as sincere as his apology. "I did not realize you were entertaining any guests this evening."

"I didn't think I would be either," Jim consoled pleasantly. "Mr. Tetch, this is my sister, Sylvia Cobblepot. Sylvia, this is—"

"Jervis Tetch, the world- _renowned_ hypnotist." Sylvia finished, smirking as she approached him.

Tetch and Jim exchanged curious if not perplexed glances, which amused her.

"My associates tell me you're highly recommended," Sylvia explained. "You dabble in illusions and magic."

"Ah, are your associates Miss Kean and Ms. Galavan, per chance?"

"The same."

"I think they're the most colorful architects of entertainment I've yet to meet."

"That's because you have no one else to compare them to… _yet_ ," Sylvia retorted confidently, making Tetch raise an eyebrow provocatively while she moved by him and addressed her brother.

"If you can find her," Sylvia told Jim as she handed a thick envelope, referring to Ivy, "by all means, the sooner rather than later. If you find anything—good or bad—please let me know. Either way, here's the money, so please…full disclosure?"

"Full disclosure." Jim agreed seriously. "And the means?"

"You know me," she said, shrugging her right shoulder. "I'm a 'by any means necessary' kind of gal. But I think you already knew that, Jimmy. Call me, text me—but do let me know, 'kay?"

"Sure thing."

"Mr. Tetch?" She addressed him.

Tetch smiled, saying, "Yes, ma'am?"

"Can I have a business card of yours, or something?" Sylvia asked politely, standing just a few inches away so she could smile up at him. "I might have an opening on Thursday night, a space to be filled. I've heard such great things about you, I figured if you were available you wouldn't mind bringing your illusions to my club."

"I'd be more than flattered." Tetch indulged, sliding a hand inside the innermost pocket of his coat and handing one to her.

She read off the holographic imagery, "'The Great Jervis Tetch: Hypnotist Extraordinaire.' Well…" She smirked up at him. "I hope you didn't just jot that down for advertisement purposes. I expect some showmanship."

"You won't be disappointed." Tetch promised.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Mr. Tetch." Sylvia said, sending him a crooked grin before she smiled sweetly at Jim. "Bye-bye, love you, Jimmy."

"Love you too." Jim returned quickly, smiling when she waved 'bye'. He closed the door, and then turned to see Jervis Tetch mindfully watching him with what could only be described as 'pleasant amusement'.

"That's your sister, Mr. Gordon?" Tetch inquired.

"To both my misfortune and blessings, yes, she is." Jim said cynically as he opened the top of his cup of tea so that he could pour a little whiskey inside. "I hope she didn't put you off. She has a way of making people uncomfortable. Most of the time, it's for her own amusement."

"On a contrary, I find her 'enchanting.'"

"That's a new one." Jim laughed, shaking his head. He looked at Tetch, realized he was serious and he cleared his throat, saying, "How did you find me, Mr. Tetch?"

"You're famous, Mr. Gordon. The fearless Bounty Hunter. It's in the papers, and, clearly, even your family seek out your ability and your counsel."

There was a moment of praise, but then Tetch became more serious, his eyes taking on a darker color; his voice, a tone of dread and arbor.

"I want you to find my sister," He said. "We're very close. We lost our parents at an early age. I became her guardian. But…her condition proved too much for me. I sought help—the worst kind: The fiend, Professor Strange."

"Her condition?" Jim inquired.

"Some poison in her blood. Very rare. Very _unique._ He took her in. He said she needed 'constant supervision'. He wouldn't let me see her."

"That's not uncommon," said Jim, grudgingly.

"Sir?"

"For a time," Jim explained, "my brother-in-law was placed in Arkham. He was under Strange's care for months at a time. During his stay there, my sister was unable to see her own husband—no matter how insistent or annoying she proved to be, no matter what she did, Strange refused. She's not the first, nor were you, to have that kind of treatment. It's Strange's signature: Not to let family members see the sick or the fragile. It was his code, his way."

"And you approve?"

"Of course, I don't." Jim said calmly. "Did you go to the police by any chance?"

"Useless," Tetch said politely. "This is Gotham, after all."

"You're not the first to say that.".

"The years passed, and I lost hope." Tetch continued further. "But then I heard about the break-out. I assume that my sister escaped with the others. Now she is out there, alone. Afraid."

"Indian Hill escapees are five grand if they get brought to the GCPD. Are you able to top that?"

As though waiting to bring out his weaponry, Tetch easily reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a huge neatly bundled wad of bills, and said assuredly, "I can double it."

More inclined to help a stranger in need, Jim said, "I'll see what I can do!"

"Thank you very much, Mr. Gordon," said Tetch as he handed him the money clip. "You'll be doing me a grand favor. I imagine you understand how it feels as you have a sister of your own."

"With one difference," said Jim humorously. "As you put it, your sister is 'alone, afraid'. I sometimes wish _mine_ would find herself in a similar situation. Might humble her a little."

"Be careful what you wish for," lamented Tetch. "Often times, what we wish for ends up being the thing we never wanted to begin with. Your sister…" (he glanced at the door as though looking through it) "seems—in the few minutes I've interacted with her—surefooted, strong-headed, resourceful, and self-reliant. I doubt she became that person without going through a few trials of her own. Seeing as she is all of these things, your wish is less likely to come true. But still…why would you allow that kind of luck to follow?"

"You've got a point, Tetch."

As Tetch began to leave, he stopped and glanced back at him.

"You've been through much pain and tragedy, Mr. Gordon. I hope it hasn't left you too alone." He said, his eyes and voice full of mystique. And then he left.

**Chapter 30: I Bet My Life**

After paying off Jim to find Ivy (whether it would have a positive result or not), Sylvia returned to the mansion with Demetri holding an umbrella over her head.

It had been beautiful outside: not a single cloud to be seen. However, in less than ten minutes, the sky became a dismal gray and opened its mouth to a downpour. As she quickly moved into the mansion, opening the door only long enough so that Demetri could run in after her, Sylvia sighed in disgust as she held out her arms.

Water droplets rolled off her fingertips; her hair was doused as though she'd just come out of a shower. Meanwhile, Demetri was chuckling to himself as he shook off his own raincoat, hanging it on the coat rack behind the door.

"That Gotham Weather Forecasting staff all need to be _fired_." Sylvia grumbled, peeling off her coat. Demetri took it from her, hanging it on the rack along with the his. "'Sunny skies all week', my ass."

"The weather's as unpredictable as the crime." Demetri tried to defend the newscast.

"If that's the case, it should be pretty fucking predictable."

"Well, Miss Sylvia, the good thing about being indoors is that you'll eventually dry off. If you want, I can help Miss Olga with dinner and…" Demetri began, but Sylvia strode past him, waving her hand.

"Don't worry about it. Dinner will be fine. Olga's proficient in the kitchen; she doesn't need help."

"If you want, I can prepare a bath for you."

"What I want, kid, is to get out of these clothes and into something _dry_. If you're smart, you'll change too," Sylvia told him, smiling appreciatively. "You'll catch your death if you don't."

"Yes, Ma'am."

As he left to his own quarters, Sylvia watched him leave before doing the same.

She closed the bedroom door, took out a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, and dressed down. For a moment, she considered just climbing into bed. The comforter itself seemed to remind her just how exhausting her day had been—what with Aubrey James and his _lovely_ wife ('the fucking cunt', she thought), her public accusations of Sylvia and Oswald's alleged atrocities, and the visit to the obstetrician—the idea of just going to bed was more tempting than Sylvia cared to admit.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her bare bum on the sheets.

Feeling comfortable was starting to become a luxury, at this point. Suddenly remorseful for having such a bitter thought, Sylvia placed a hand on her belly, hoping that her daughter hadn't somehow telepathically heard her.

But it was true.

She still had at least another four or five months of this left and her discomfort was constant.

Sylvia's clothes didn't fit as snugly as they used to. Feeling sexy was a luxury, for sure. She'd bought other clothes—not necessarily 'maternity' ones but they were different.

Forget clothes.

She hadn't had caffeine, alcohol, or cigarettes in such a long time— _damn_ , she missed it. Knowing she couldn't have it made her want it more.

To be most comfortable, she slipped on her sweatpants, pulling them up, first from the ankle then slowly shimmying them up to her hips. Fuck panties—who really needed them, you know. Fuck bras too—she'd go braless…her tits felt sore most of the time. What use was a bra? It wouldn't help.

Black sweats. Red tank top. She wouldn't wear her slippers.

'Fuck slippers, too,' She thought apathetically, '…Men and women were meant to walk barefoot anyway.'

There was a knock on the door.

" _What_?" Sylvia sighed, thinking it was Demetri or someone else asking if there was anything else they could do for her.

"It's me."

She could recognize his voice—no matter how loud or softly her love spoke.

"You know you don't have to knock every time the door is closed, right?" Sylvia asked as Oswald stepped in. "You've seen me naked _hundreds_ of times."

"A gentleman knocks when a lady's door is shut." He said respectfully, minding the door itself before coming into the room completely, after shutting it with a soft 'click'.

Sylvia continued to sit on the edge of the bed. For once, her discomfort was no longer on the brain. Instead, she noticed him. And something more primal.

Oswald was in a suit (no surprise, there) but he looked more _debonair_. His hair looked feathery, more like it used to in its own 'disco vampire' sense. His suit had a ménage of royal blue, a particular gold and navy blue pocket square neatly crested on his left side. He came strolling in with the ebony-glossed cane, the penguin-shaped handle held loosely in his right hand.

"You look beautiful," Oswald told her with a small smile, discreetly peering down at her toes, polished black, then resting his gaze upon her own.

"I'm wearing sweats," Sylvia pointed out flatly. "Not exactly 'glamorous' over here."

Ignoring her half-attempt of waving away his compliment, Oswald placed his left hand in his pocket, looking thoughtfully at the ground, then at her.

His behavior was curious, if not perplexing. Sylvia looked at him closely, eyes narrowing and her eyebrows, furrowed.

"What's going on?" She asked lightly.

"I've been doing some thinking." Oswald explained. He walked towards her, placing his cane alongside the bedpost so he could sit on her right side.

"You? Thinking? _Shocking_ news."

Oswald smiled at her joke, but his grin sobered.

"It occurs to me," He continued, "that I never asked if you would be comfortable with my becoming Mayor of Gotham." He met her eyes, adding, "'Placing my name in the hat' as the phrase goes, becoming a candidate in the running election. It all just sort of…happened."

"And you wonder if I may disagree?" Sylvia questioned knowingly, "Or that I may think that I don't want that sort of pressure on our marriage? Or perhaps you feel that running Gotham's Underworld isn't enough responsibility, and that by taking on the role of Mayor _and_ King of Gotham, I will initially be understanding of your new responsibilities but may eventually resent you for it, because you may no longer have time for me or your unborn daughter?"

Oswald blinked. He opened his mouth to quickly assuage whatever feelings she'd placed in the open, but Sylvia interrupted him: her lips pressed against his, and whatever guilt she may have laid on him was briefly pushed to the side.

The kiss was soft and tender, and the single one became many; he reciprocated each and every one of them. When it naturally broke, Oswald gazed at her, taken aback, but pleasantly surprised.

"You're going to be a very busy man," Sylvia told him gently. "You're going to be _swamped_ by politician and gangster alike. And running Gotham as Mayor _and_ running Gotham's Underworld…baby, it's going to be one chaotic mess. But I think you can do it."

"Do you?" Oswald asked.

Oh, boy. That self-doubt was creeping in, apparently.

"Aubrey James ran Gotham for almost ten years," Oswald said quietly, glancing from her to the floor in pressing thought. "People know what I've done—theoretically or otherwise."

"Sweetheart…"

"There are ten million people in the city. How can I convince _all_ of them to—"

"Sweetie."

" _What_?" Oswald snapped impatiently.

She nuzzled his cheek with her nose, and whispered, "I believe in you."

Oswald asked, "So you're fine with this? All of it?"

"It'll take time getting used to," She said with a smile, "I don't particularly care for the idea that your attention will be divided among the rest of the rabble, but then again, you know me. I'm the jealous type."

Oswald smiled when she sent him a flirtatious wink, and he idly gazed at her as she reclined on the bed, eyes looking forward, up at the ceiling.

"I don't care much for politics, to be honest," Sylvia sighed. "I don't know how much help I'll be with your mayoral campaign, but I'll still be running the underworld right alongside of you, if that's what you're asking. Personally, I think it's best if I stay out of it. I don't know if you couldn't tell, but I fucking despise Mrs. James. That woman is a fucking cunt, and I'll be happy to see her get publicly humiliated when you win the election."

Oswald chuckled, "I think everyone could tell that you don't care for the woman."

"I'd chop her head off with a guillotine if the French would let us borrow one." Sylvia vowed, mimicking a slicing motion with her hand over her throat to indicate its brutality. "God, I couldn't stand her."

"That much was obvious."

"Was I _that_ transparent?" She joked.

"Like a glass window, dear."

"Mm. I hope it didn't damage your chances."

"I think the odds are in my favor," Oswald said with a sly grin. "And you're very aware of what you've done."

"Oh, I'm _very_ aware of what I did. He played games in the past, and his wife happily went along with it. That makes her complicit in every crooked game _he_ has ever played. Before your past or mine gets flung up in our faces, I thought it was only fair that the James' have the same thing done to them. Granted, if the crowd didn't know before, I'm sure they know now."

"That James is a crooked politician?"

"What? Oh no, _everyone_ knows that. I meant that Mrs. James is a fucking twat." Sylvia said happily. "Pretending like she's all pristine and fucking shiny—I don't have time for that. And neither does anyone else."

Oswald smiled, watching Sylvia wriggle to get more comfortable on her back. His gaze hovered over her comfy black sweats, then up to her noticeable braless tank top before meeting her gaze. Thoughtfully, he stood, taking off his dress jacket and laying it down neatly on the bed before lying down on his back right beside her.

"Blue looks good on you," Sylvia commented, glancing at the azure vest he wore over his usual long-sleeved white-collared shirt. "Brings out your eyes."

"That, and brocade."

"No argument there." She agreed.

"Where's Demetri?"

"Downstairs," Sylvia answered nonchalantly.

"Doing what exactly?"

"Trying to help Olga with dinner."

"He won't succeed."

"I tried telling him that," Sylvia laughed. "All she'll do is kick him out of the kitchen and mumble something Russian under her breath."

"She never needs help."

"I told him that too," She sighed, "But Demetri's determined to help anyone he can." She smirked, glancing sideways at Oswald, adding, "He'd probably help you with _your_ errands if you allowed him to."

"I already told you…"

"You don't trust him." Sylvia recalled. "I know."

"I still can't understand why you keep him around."

"He's helpful."

"So is Butch."

"Butch thinks himself above being an errand boy." Sylvia told him. "Besides, Butch seems more than content to be your sidekick. So do you."

Oswald heard her passive tone, and turned his head to look at her pointedly, asking, "What is that supposed to mean?"

Sylvia smiled in spite of his defensive reaction, saying, "Gabe."

"What about him?"

"You pushed him to the wayside."

"I did not—"

Sylvia sent him a look, to which Oswald couldn't properly respond and he turned his head so he could mindfully peer up at the ceiling.

"Perhaps I did," Oswald admitted. "You can see why I don't need him much anymore, though, can't you? Butch is more competent. He doesn't think _often_ , but he _does_ at least think occasionally."

"So he's not a moron. That's what you're saying."

"Sure," Oswald scoffed.

"I'm sure he'd love to hear that."

"What's your point?"

"You play 'favorites'," Sylvia told him. "Your flavor of the month is the person who is most useful to you, depending on whatever time or day you need them, and whatever purpose you need them for. Butch seems to take precedence. Meanwhile, Gabe is feeling a little…well, I guess, 'unappreciated'. He needs something to do."

"I treat my men the same."

"Do you?"

"I do," Oswald insisted.

"If Galavan hadn't dropped him like yesterday's 'Good Housekeeping' magazine, Butch wouldn't be in your employ. You'd still be asking Gabe to crack skulls instead of His-One-Mallet-Wonder." Sylvia stated, and she looked at him, adding, "To be frank: Your men are getting _bored,_ therefore, getting impatient and litigious."

Oswald said incredulously (as well as with some annoyance), "How do you _know_ any of this? Do my men _talk_ to you?"

"Everyone talks to me." Sylvia responded easily. "See, my people hang out with your people. Your people tell my people they're getting bored, that they want more to do. When your people talk to my people, _my_ people talk to **me** where, thereafter, I talk to you—just as we are doing now. That's how the Chain of Command works."

She sat up a little so she could lie on her side, supported by an elbow. She looked down at him, some of her hair falling over a shoulder; the rest, behind her back.

"I leave it to the king," Sylvia uttered softly, "to decide what to do next."

"I have no use for Gabe." Oswald told her plainly.

"I can have him work for my club," She offered. "I get enough rowdy customers for one evening, it's usually a day-event. He can be happy there. Unless, you want to swap."

"This isn't a trade, Pigeon." Oswald told her.

Then he paused.

"Who did you have in mind?" He asked.

"You _know_ who."

"Absolutely not."

"You won't even give him a chance?" Sylvia asked. "It's been _weeks_ since I had Delilah killed, and literally, in that time, Demetri has been nothing but remorseful and loyal. He's living in the house for Christ's sake. He's with me everywhere I go—and you still don't trust him?"

"You're right, I don't trust him." Oswald told her. "You have legitimate and tangible proof—evidence that at one point or another, he was going to turn against you. Yet, you still let him live. That's illogical. It doesn't make _any_ sense."

"You've spoken to him."

"I have."

"And didn't he seem to understand your threat?"

"I think he took it to heart, yes," Oswald returned.

"And yet, you still think he'll turn traitor."

"I think he _is_ a traitor, and he's just buying time until your guard is down." He said with forced calm. "Both Brittany and Delilah did the same. After buying the act a second time, I'd hope you'd see your error before it happens a third time."

"If he bothers you so much, why don't you just kill him?"

"Well, how can I do that, if you won't let me?" Oswald asked, sitting up.

"I'm not stopping you." Sylvia reminded. "He's downstairs, _right now_. No one to defend him, and I know—for a fact—he doesn't carry a gun or a blade, so have it. You want to put your paranoia to rest, then fucking kill him. Or trust my judgement. Either way, let's just be done with it so we can stop arguing about him."

Oswald stared at her, perhaps not having expected the discussion to take a turn for the worse. There was a long pause as he briefly considered heading downstairs to lay Demetri to waste, to silence that paranoid voice of his that he'd adopted through learning from Carmine Falcone after all those years serving under Fish. Perhaps that was the better call, wasn't it? Perhaps it was for the best to get rid of the traitor before Demetri had a chance to prove him right.

Oswald looked at Sylvia, uncertain.

"What is your attachment to him?" Oswald asked.

"Excuse me?"

Oswald said patiently, "You're one of the most intelligent people I've ever met, more perceptive about everyone else. You _know_ what Demetri would have done if Delilah hadn't been exposed—you know the potential he has for becoming….well, whatever it is you think he's fit to become. What's your reason for keeping him around?"

It was Sylvia's turn to become defensive. She stood up, and said frankly, "I'm not secretly in love with him, if _that's_ what you're implying."

"That's not what I was implying at all. Far from it, actually."

"It's not? That's what it sounded like to me!" Sylvia argued.

"Well, it's not."

"Because," she scoffed, "Let's be honest—it's not the first time you've been jealous of someone because I might like them."

She crossed her arms, and waited for Oswald's attack but it never came. Instead, oddly enough, he was patient.

Feeling as though she had overstepped a boundary, Sylvia uncrossed her arms, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, saying, "Okay…I might have gotten ahead of myself for assuming that."

"Perceptive of everyone else, but _yourself_." Oswald enunciated, smiling in spite of the situation. "Dare I take a stab as to why you keep this stray of yours around, in _spite_ of all the evidence and theories pointing to the fact that you should let him go?"

"Stab away, Genius."

"You see yourself in him." Oswald guessed.

Sylvia began to argue, but was he wrong?

Although he was soft-spoken, wasn't Demetri nearly a spitting reflection of herself? Smart, doting, honest…underappreciated in a sense that he could be so much more powerful and stronger if only given the chance to show his metal?

"Forget the intuitive implications," Sylvia muttered, embarrassed by her own blinded perception. "Forget all of it, Oswald. The man is homeless—he has no where to go. And when it comes down to it, he just wants to show how grateful he is for us taking him in, and making him feel useful. That's all anyone wants, isn't it? To feel useful? To feel appreciated? You, yourself, knows what it's like not to get credit when credit is due."

"So it's a charity thing?" Oswald questioned, although he wasn't too surprised by it.

"You can call it that." She relented. "He's sweet, and grateful. He followed Delilah because he saw a chance to get out of the rut he was in, to make a name for himself. Delilah was a dictating little shit—she controlled the roster and the schedule, and clearly, she was able to manipulate him. Loved her like a friend, up until the end."

"Are you certain he has no other connection to Delilah than being manipulated?" Oswald asked suspiciously.

"I'm certain of it. He's no longer under her spell."

"How certain?"

"I'd bet my life on it." Sylvia said bluntly.

And that seemed to do it. He held out his hands; she took them, stepping towards him, so she stood between his legs.

"Then that settles it." Oswald said lightly, looking up at her.

"I tell you that I trust Demetri enough that I'd bet my life on his loyalty, and suddenly you're peachy?" Sylvia asked curiously. "How does that even follow?"

"I trust him as far as I can throw him, and that's not far at all." Oswald told her unhappily. He kissed the inside of her wrist. His voice softened as he added, "But I trust _you_ , Pigeon."

Sylvia smiled, grinning down at him. Quietly, she asked, "Are we okay now?"

He answered her by touching each side of her face with the palm of his hands, bringing her closer to him so he could kiss her. When he did, Sylvia returned it, lightly parting her lips so that he could gain entry, which he obliged whole-heartedly. Slowly, she moved forward so that he was prompted to lie on his back.

When she clumsily collapsed onto him, they both laughed; the sound silenced the moment their lips touched again. Sylvia's legs straddled his, and her arms framed either side of his shoulders, locking him in. Oswald was unable to move out from beneath her. (Not that he wanted to.)

"How did the appointment go?" Oswald asked in between kisses.

"It went as well as could be expected. But we can talk about that later." Sylvia returned, and she slowly moved her hips downward and into him, putting into motion a slow, teasing grind between them.

"You don't want to talk about it n—"

"Later, baby."

Sylvia pulled off her tank top, starting the succession of taking off her clothes. Oswald watched her, slightly magnetized by how quickly she got off the bed so she could rip her sweatpants down to her ankles. He smirked when he saw just how eager she was to get him to match her, her fingers like lightning as they undid his belt. Figuring he might as well help her out, Oswald stood and while she undressed his lower half, he did away with his vest, and unbuttoned his shirt, laughing quietly when Sylvia pushed him back down on the bed once he was just as naked as she.

"Pigeon, you need to slow down." Oswald cautioned, his hands moved to her stomach.

"The baby's fine, Ozzie. Me, on the other hand: I'm not."

"Why, what's wrong?"

"I'm fucking horny over here, and you're concerned that my jumping around is bad for the baby." Sylvia told him. "She's _fine_."

Sylvia moved onto him, and he looked uncomfortable. _That_ was a first.

"What's wrong?" Sylvia asked, startled.

Oswald said uncertainly, "What if…"

"You won't hurt her." She reassured.

"This doesn't feel weird to you?" Oswald asked, perplexed.

Sylvia chuckled, "Why would it be weird?"

"Full disclosure, pet: It feels like we're having sex in front of our own daughter."

"She can't see anything."

"She can _hear_ though!".

Sylvia recognized that tone. He was not only worried about the safety of their unborn child, but the very idea that the first _memory_ of her new parents would be of hearing them have sex outside the womb. Oswald could really overthink things, couldn't he?

"Is it because she's facing you?" Sylvia asked, poking her stomach as she slowly moved off him so she no longer straddled him.

"I feel like she's looking at me."

"She can't see _anything_ outside of my womb, Oswald. It's not like I've drawn a face on my stomach and called it 'Wilson'."

Oswald stared at her.

She explained, "It's a reference to 'Castaway'."

He still stared at her.

"You know," Sylvia said, waving her hand. "The movie? Tom Hanks is in it."

"Pigeon—"

Sylvia sighed, crawling further up the bed. Oswald watched her curiously, not sure if she was appalled or entertained by his lack of movie trivia…or the entire situation as a whole.

"Turn off the lights," Sylvia said, motioning him. "Then come to bed."

Oswald did as he was instructed, and in the darkness, he voiced, "What is this supposed to accomplish?"

"Well, not to sound selfish or anything, but I'm still horny, and we're going to have sex one way or another so we're going to find a way around this." Sylvia's said from the darkness.

Oswald sat on the bed, his movement on the sheets rustling as he announced his approach. As he crawled to her, Sylvia reached out, touching his shoulders, guiding him so he lied on his side, realizing—after Sylvia had finished moving around—that she was also lying on her side. Oswald nuzzled the back of her neck affectionately, smiling when she pressed her back against his chest.

"How do you feel now?" Sylvia asked curiously.

"Admittedly, a lot better."

"Good."

Oswald snickered when her leg moved so he could anchor himself to close what little distance was between them; her eagerness, after all this time of being together, still amused him. Under the covers, with her naked body pressed so closely against him, he could feel himself getting hot and bothered.

"I feel you breathing on my neck," Sylvia murmured.

"Do you?"

"Mm-hmm…"

He took a handful of her long, ginger hair, moving it to her shoulder so he had all the access to her neck, finding her nape, kissing her there. Ever so softly, he blew into her ear and she shuddered against him.

"You like that, don't you," Oswald murmured, and hearing him so close to her, Sylvia shuddered in positive response.

He reached around, ghosting his fingertips over her sides; she responded in the same manner. Her quiet gasp that came after he cupped one of her breasts, gently teasing a nipple between his fingers made him smile. Her entire body seemed wholly sensitive, more keen to everything around her, including him.

"It's been a little while, hasn't it…?" Oswald said gently, only really realizing that was true the moment the words were spoken. A few weeks, at _least_.

"Mmmm…" Sylvia sighed. "It has…"

She turned her head; he felt the movement, and he met her lips with his. Soft, but deep kisses…it silenced whatever remorse Oswald felt for having waited this long to initiate anything for fear of hurting his unborn daughter. It seemed like such a petty fear now, compared to everything else that they'd encountered together.

A petty fear, especially when all he wanted to do now was show Sylvia just how much he was still attracted to her. The heat radiating from her body engulfed his own…the way she reacted to his every touch, every gesture…

"Turn towards me," Oswald told her.

"I thought you felt like she was watching you," Sylvia giggled.

"I'm far from caring about that now, Pet."

She shifted onto her other side, only realizing what he meant when she felt his erection between her legs, the head of his stiff cock standing at attention below her baby bump.

"Didn't take long," She teased quietly, nipping his bottom lip.

Oswald silenced her prolonged poking fun with a poke of his own. He slowly rubbed the head of his cock up and down between the slit of her sex, pleased to feel that she was just as hot and wet as he hoped. He lowered his left hand between them, just as slowly rubbing circles around her clit, feeling it become swollen as he did.

"Fuck..." She whimpered.

Oswald snickered, "Well, that's what I had in mind."

"You don't say, you cocky little—"

She let out a squeak when he pinched her clit; a shot of tingling, numbing electricity later, and Sylvia was breathless.

He kissed her neck, and murmured into her ear, "Now's not the time to decide to be a smart ass."

Sylvia nodded, and she moaned in appreciation when he continued to tease her clit with his thumb, his two other fingers slowly moved between the lips of her pussy, spreading her open, feeling just how wet she really was. She let out a slew of whimpers, her pelvis moving in rhythm as he gently moved his fingers in and out.

Sex with Sylvia was always an invigorating experience. It never was the same experience each time. And while the entirety was memorable, what Oswald enjoyed most were the reactions he pulled from her. Every soft, submissive moan he pulled out of that dominant, petulant mouth as she willingly gave herself to him.

A man could lose himself inside her, lost in that feeling.

"What do you want, Sylvia?" He asked knowingly; she was actively humping his hand at this point; her own hands either on his hip or in his hair, trying to persuade him to do what she wanted without having to speak the words themselves.

"Oswald, _please…_ Mm!"

Her moan became a gasp when he curled his fingers and found the spot that caused her to whine desperately for him. Just a taste, though, as he didn't linger there too long. He pulled his hand from her, feeling smug as she pushed her body against his, wanting more, _needing_ more.

"It's a helpless feeling, isn't it," Oswald uttered as Sylvia ran her hands all over him, her body aching for any part of him to touch her again. "I know exactly what strings to pull" (He took a handful of her hair in his hand and gently tugged; she moaned in response.) "And what buttons to press…"—He teased her clit with feather-like touches—"and, in minutes, you fall apart in front of me. You know it'll happen. You let it happen, time and time again…"

Sylvia was a wanton, breathless mess. Her hand dove down to his cock, stroking him in a desperate attempt to bait him into fucking her sooner, and Oswald couldn't help but smile.

"Helplessness is terrifying, isn't it?" Oswald asked her. Victorious.

"Yes, it is…" Sylvia moaned. "Fuck…"

Just as he was feeling pretty proud of himself, that feeling left. It was his fault, really—he'd forgotten how fast Sylvia could really move: pregnancy or no pregnancy. In less than ten seconds, she'd pulled out of his hypnotic touches, pushed him on his back, and pinned both of his hands above his head.

"You know what buttons and strings _I_ have," Sylvia told him, her own desire caught in her voice. "But you forget, my King, I also know _yours_."

Sylvia straddled him and, pressing her sex against his stiff cock, she heard him attempt to stifle an involuntary moan when he felt her wet heat.

Oswald felt her tongue lick his ear, her lips kiss that sweet spot along between his jaw and neckline. An intense feeling of need and his own helplessness attacked him as his arousal rivaled her own.

"You can tell me to stop anytime." Sylvia said, taking hold of his cock in her palm and rubbing the head of it between her legs so he could get a taste of what was to come. "But you won't. You _like_ this…being at my mercy. Just as I like being at yours. Helplessness isn't terrifying…" (She licked his ear again) "If you enjoy it."

"Pigeon…"

"Feeling 'weird' again?"

"No…I'm _way_ past that." Oswald admitted, his voice catching.

"Then what is it?" Sylvia asked innocently. "Honestly, I doubt I can hold out much longer, so if the next words out of your mouth aren't 'please fuck me', I don't want to hear—"

He grabbed her hips, and thrusted upward.

Sylvia sharply inhaled, biting her bottom lip when she felt his cock impale her—as wet as she was, he went in full force, and caught her g-spot.

Taking advantage of her surprise, Oswald seized his opportunity.

He pulled out, and shoved her off him. Sylvia was about to object; that was until he crawled onto her, grabbing her knees to spread them apart, and moving himself between them.

Sylvia raised her hands to him; he caught them, pinning her wrists just above her shoulders. Oswald expected Sylvia to use her physical strength against him, but as soon as he thrusted his cock inside of her, she was as submissive as before. Weak with desire and need.

Once he was sure she was down, his rhythm of quick thrusts slowed so he could feel every inch of her clamp onto his cock, every muscle, every fiber of her being. Listening to her whimpers and moans. Feeling her wrists offer little resistance as he held them loosely, pinning them down.

Her back arched, her neck craning back as her eyes closed in deep and longing satisfaction.

"That's it…" Oswald murmured. "Give yourself to me… _fuck_."

Sylvia wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside. He hesitated to lie on her, being vaguely aware that her baby bump was just beneath him.

"It's okay…" She whispered as though having felt his hesitation.

Gently, and as delicately as he could muster, Oswald slowly lowered his body onto hers so he could worry less about trying to brace himself above her, and more about feeling her around _him_.

But soon, slow steady thrusts became quick, forceful. She was close—he was closer. The climax so close that the threat of it fleeting felt more life-threatening at the moment than anything else that was comparable. Sylvia met hers, a slew of moans leaving her lips; he powered through her tight clenching (it felt _amazing_ ) and she met every thrust.

"I'm so close…" Oswald whimpered desperately. "Sylvia…"

She grabbed his hair, and yanked it back so his neck became exposed to her; she bit down on his throat and the surge of pain became numbed by the surge of tingles and electricity that quickly followed.

He lost control and when he did, Sylvia pushed him on his back, and crawled down quickly to his waist. She put her mouth around his cock, and began sucking.

Oswald could feel everything; as though the bones in his body liquidated and the only thing he could comprehend was that Sylvia was moaning around his cock, creating vibrations as she sucked every little ounce of him that was spent. For a moment, his mind blurred, and, for a longer moment, he had trouble catching his breath.

Once the combination of dopamine and endorphins had slowly started losing its strength, Oswald blinked and smiled widely in relief as Sylvia stood on her knees, crawling back up to the headboard. She licked her lips, looking more or less proud of herself.

"I thought I'd have to beg for that…" Oswald panted.

"I could tell what it was you needed," Sylvia said gently. Slyly, she added, "It's a good thing I knew what buttons to press."

Oswald smiled sheepishly, watching her as she settled beside him, lying on her side so she could snuggle close to him.

"How did you know?" Oswald asked.

"How did I know that in order to reach your climax that I needed to bite you?" Sylvia responded.

"Well, yes."

Sylvia smirked, saying, "You forget this quite frequently, Ozzie, but it's simple: I know you. Inside, and out. I know what pisses you off, what makes you happy, what turns you on and off, and what it takes for you to get off. Just as I'm sure, you know all that stuff about _me_."

Oswald was thoughtful for a silent moment, and then asked, "Would you call that 'helplessness' as well?"

"I'd call it 'love', but to each his own, I suppose." Sylvia returned. "It's been a few years, you know. If we don't know each other by now, what the fuck are we doing, then."

"Point taken. Quick question…?"

"Hmm?"

"Am I bleeding?"

Sylvia left his side and Oswald was about to inquire as to why until the bedroom light turned on and he had to squint in order for his eyes to adjust. Sylvia sat on the bed, placed two fingers under his chin and lifted so he was forced to look up at the ceiling while she observed.

"No." She said lightly. "You're not bleeding. Might leave a mark, but only for a few days. Hard enough that I made you see stars, but not hard enough to draw blood. What'd I tell you, baby…I _know_ you."

"Well, thank goodness for that." Oswald said, gently rubbing his neck where she'd bitten him. "I guess you know me pretty well, then."

"Yep. More than you know yourself."

"You sound pretty certain of that."

"Oh, I'd bet on it." Sylvia said, smirking at him.

"Your life, I'm guessing?"

"You guessed right, baby."

**Chapter 31: The Search For Ivy**

Paying Jim to find someone might have been enough to grant anyone else peace of mind. But Jim would only work as hard as he decided to.

That wasn't enough for Sylvia. Not at all.

She wouldn't leave it up to Jim to look. Instead, Sylvia had other places to look for Ivy Pepper, however small the inclination or possibility that the girl would be there.

On a list of priorities, this was the first. And her first stop just happened to be a certain Manor where a certain child was staying home from school because he was allegedly 'feeling below the weather'. As it was…

Sylvia presented to the manor with a grocery bag of a variety of items to include cough medicine, a get-well card, and a bowl of chicken noodle soup. To fend off the welcome of the new Fall weather, she gathered her coat closer to her, smiling evenly when the door opened to reveal Alfred Pennyworth, who returned her expression with a surprised one instead.

"Mrs. Cobblepot!" He greeted. He opened the door a little wider, adding, "Well, this is a most pleasant surprise."

"Yes, I thought I'd pop in." Sylvia returned, and she offered him the bag candidly. "Word of mouth says Mr. Wayne has a cold. I thought I'd bring a few things to pepper his spirits…so to speak."

"Aw, there was no need to go through all of that trouble."

"Considering, I'm sure, Bruce isn't sick and he's just not going to school?"

Alfred chuckled, "Nothing gets past you, does it?"

"You'd be surprised what can, honestly. May I come in?"

"Oh good heavens, yes, please, you must be freezing," Alfred said, stepping aside and hurrying her into the manor.

She passed him, entering, and he closed the door as she did. She followed him into the kitchen, frankly surveying her surroundings until Alfred turned, and placed the bag of groceries on the counter nearest to the refrigerator.

"How have you been?" asked Alfred. "It's been a while since we've last seen you…I don't even remember when..."

"Strange had us all locked in some godforsaken room while a time bomb was counting down," She reminded. "Same day, you and I were stuck in a similar godforsaken elevator."

"Ah yes. Well, that _was_ a long time ago, wasn't it?"

"More than a few months, actually."

"It seems longer."

"It seems that way, doesn't it," Sylvia agreed, grinning widely. "How's Bruce?"

"Chirpy and stubborn, as ever."

"I hoped his experience with Strange hadn't dulled his spirits."

"I think he's become more brazen actually."

"That wouldn't surprise me."

"I doubt anything would, considering the ruthlessness of your job," Alfred minded, unable to sanctify a small passive-aggressive streak before it slipped out.

A small moment of silence passed between them, a moment where Sylvia happened to notice that on the counter were a pair of boxing gloves.

"Were you and Bruce sparring?" Sylvia asked.

Alfred glanced at the item in question and said embarrassedly, "Yes, I'm afraid we were."

"I interrupted, then."

"Yes, I'm afraid so. To be quite honest, I wasn't expecting anyone to call on Master Bruce until a few days later, but…"

"Well," Sylvia said lightly, "If we're being _honest_ , I didn't come here to check on Bruce's wellness…at least, not whole-heartedly."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I'm actually trying to find someone. I was hoping he may know where she is."

"Are you looking for Selina Kyle, by chance?"

"No. I know where _she_ is." Sylvia chuckled. "It's one of her friends. Ivy Pepper."

"Oh…oh, I see." Alfred muttered. He cleared his throat, patting the counter shortly with his right hand, and said spiritedly, "Let me see if I can't find Master Bruce. You'll get your answer, sooner than later. How about that?"

"I'd appreciate it, thank you."

"Give me one moment."

"Sure thing." Sylvia relinquished, and she followed Alfred into the living room where he left her there to wait, insisting that she have a seat because 'god-only-knows where that boy has ventured off to'.

Instead of sitting, Sylvia observed the different artifacts, hung pictures, and antiques that gave the Wayne Manor its own slice of antiquity. The Waynes—all of them, not just Bruce or his parents—had a taste for the flair and drama that always came with being an old family in Gotham.

Large pictures that might as well had been photocopied from a museum. Knick knacks of a golden variety placed on the mantle of a fireplace, the surface of a recently stain-finished coffee table, and those that lined like bookends on a large set of bookshelves.

Sylvia idly touched the frail tapestry that hung towards the back of the living room, then the drapes that casually hid the room from the outside world.

What was it like to be a Wayne? To be a rich kid, inheriting all the knowledge, finances, and responsibilities of a family that one hadn't the time on Earth to yet discover?

"Poor kid," Sylvia mumbled. "Poor thing."

"Who are you?"

Sylvia startled at the sound, but she grew even more wary when she turned to see that the voice of Bruce Wayne came from someone who, granted, did look a lot like him, but wasn't comparable to the boy she'd only interacted with on occasion. Even while she didn't see Bruce casually, Sylvia could tell the difference between the sophisticated, intelligent lamb, and… _this_.

This boy that spoke to her was identical to Bruce, and yet, he wasn't. A tress of long black hair lined his neck, tangled, disheveled. His eyes, although the same color and shape as Wayne's, held no joy or vital structure of hope. His lips were chapped, dry as a desert. And the way he held himself as he slowly but cautiously approached her was not in the same confident way Bruce Wayne would usually greet her.

"Who are you?" The boy asked again, growing more curious with each passing second.

"Sylvia Cobblepot," She answered. "Most people seem more comfortable calling me 'Lark' anymore, but I'll leave it up to you, kid. Who the hell are _you_?"

"I don't know." He answered numbly. "I'm…still trying to figure that out. I don't know who I am…but I know who I look like."

"Well, at least you know that much."

"Oh my goodness," Alfred came into the room, gasping, while Bruce Wayne ( _The_ Bruce Wayne) quickly followed him into the living room, looking more alert and overtly unhinged as they saw the other Bruce standing in plain sight.

Sylvia gestured to the other Bruce, while saying to Alfred, "I guess I've interrupted a little more than just 'boxing sessions', haven't I?"

"Mrs. Cobblepot, you don't understand—" Bruce began.

"Don't I?" She returned, smiling, which made Bruce and Alfred blink.

"This young man" Sylvia said to Bruce, gesturing to the clone, "is a spitting image of you. From his own confusion and bewilderment, he came searching for the only person who may have an answer, the only person who likes him—ergo: _you_ , Mr. Wayne. Like a candid, soft-hearted man, I imagine you took him, fed him, clothed him, and—stop me if I'm wrong—I bet you're going to try and find out where and why and how he came to be, by sheltering him here, in your own, until you can be sure. Provided that no one else find out."

Alfred and Bruce exchanged glances, not at all uncertain, but more perplexed. Meanwhile, the Other Bruce observed Sylvia with a small amount of admiration and curiosity.

"She's right on the money," chuckled Alfred, placing his hands behind his back. "Isn't she, Master B?"

"You won't tell anyone, will you?" Bruce asked hopefully. "If they find out—"

"Who would I tell, Mr. Wayne?" Sylvia returned pointedly, extending a hand to him and then to everyone in the room. "And if I had anyone _to_ tell, who on Earth would _believe_ me?"

"Point taken," Bruce considered, but he added, "Still…?"

"Your secret is safe with me."

"Thank you."

"Dare I ask, what have you found out so far?"

"He was one of Strange's experiments," Bruce confided. "Why him—or, I suppose, 'me'…That's still unclear."

"Mm." Sylvia sighed. "I can't imagine it was so that you could expand and double your charity ball arrivals."

"Yes," Alfred agreed with a smile, "I can't imagine it was for that purpose either. However helpful it might seem now."

Bruce glanced at them unhappily—how dare they joke about something so critical!

"Thank you for understanding, at least," Bruce said warmly.

"You're welcome. Now, as to why I'm here," Sylvia said softly, "I need your help, Mr. Wayne."

"Yes. Alfred told me," Bruce said, nodding in the direction of his butler. "But I'm sorry. I've not seen Ivy in a while."

"Well, that's a pity."

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you trying to find her?"

Sylvia crossed her arms plainly, saying, "It's too early in the game to say, but I'd like to say we were 'friends'. She's a sweet girl—troubled, but who isn't these days, you know?"

Alfred and Bruce nodded in agreement.

"She did something for me before, something that I wouldn't normally have asked a child to do, but she did it and she did it well. Shortly after the breakout of Strange's monsters and Fish's short-lived take-over, Ivy vanished," said Sylvia, concerned. "I know you hang around with Selina; she's a survivor. Ivy isn't like that. So, you can see why I'm worried."

"She sometimes turns up," Bruce offered halfheartedly.

"So, she does." She conceded. "But Strange's monsters are unpredictable, and dangerous. I would pit myself against them any time, even Jim, but never a little girl. I'm a monster, myself, but…even _I_ know where to draw the line."

"Understandable. Well, if we see Ms. Pepper, we'll call on you." Alfred offered helpfully.

"Thank you, to the both of you." Sylvia said gratefully.

She shook hands with the both of them, and she was about to leave until she stopped and decided to turn to the Other Bruce, who peered at her curiously, still intrigued by her presence as a whole.

"You're in good hands," Sylvia assured, touching his shoulder.

"Thank you." He returned.

Sylvia addressed the other two: "Have a good one. Be careful. It's Gotham, after all."

By this time, it was the afternoon. So far, she'd come up empty-handed.

She stopped by a Pizza _John's_ restaurant, walking out with a to-go box of pepperoni pizza. As she took the keys out of her pant pocket, and looked up to put said key into the car door, she wasn't surprised to see that there was already someone in her passenger seat.

Noticing him, Sylvia sighed, opened the car door and put the keys in the cup holder just beneath the radio. Comfortably sitting in the driver's seat, she handed the pizza over to her unfounded guest, smirking at him pointedly.

"You could have called," Sylvia told him.

"I could have," Victor Zsasz returned stoically. Then he grinned, adding, "But you knew I was coming."

"When I said 'meet me at Pizza John's', I didn't mean 'break into my car and sit there for thirty minutes'."

"I've not even been sitting for five minutes."

"But you knew my meaning…"

"Yes, I understood what you meant."

"So..?"

Victor sighed, "I decided to do this instead. Sue me."

"Just eat the goddamn pizza. And put your seat belt on." Sylvia chastised, but even while she shook her head disapprovingly, she cracked a smile.

Victor did as she instructed, putting on his seatbelt. He opened the box, smiling when he saw that she'd purchased his favorite, and he took a slice for himself, contentedly watching her drive back to her club. Upon arrival, he got out of the car first, opening the driver's door with a gentleman's flair to which Sylvia sent him an overly dramatic roll of her eyes.

They strolled up to her club, entered, and Victor seemed surprised to see that there were only a few contenders there—no one big in name or vast in wealth. A few nobodies who were having a drink, eating some peanuts and cashews, while shooting the breeze with the barmaids and waiters who greeted them with another beer.

"Business is slow today," Victor commented.

Sylvia gestured to the table where she and Victor presumed to sit, the box of pizza between them.

"It'll get busy soon." Sylvia promised. "Fridays are always busy."

"No surprise there." Victor returned, smirking at her. "Friday evenings have always been your most profitable. What song are you singing?"

"Do you even care?"

"Of course I do."

"It's not a commonly known one."

"Tell me."

"It's called 'Torn Between Two Lovers," said Sylvia. " Mary McGregor covered it, and it was beautiful. I thought I'd try to do it some justice, and perform it myself. But we'll see."

"What happened to your 'dancers'?" Victor chuckled. "Salt and Pepper, and whatever the other two call themselves."

"They're still practicing."

"You're going to fire them, aren't you."

"You're not far from the truth," Sylvia muttered as she put her hands on her face and rubbed her eyes. "They bicker so often, I can't tell if they're in the trade for entertainment or debate."

"I thought you said you were going to have some illusionist or magician come to the club," Victor said idly, taking another slice of pizza and savoring the flavor. He added, with a mouthful, "I'd come to see that."

"He's booked for next week."

"Why not this week?"

"I have my hands full this week."

"Full of half-ass performers," Victor jabbed, smirking at her. "They're really bringing the place down."

"If you're trying to vex me, you're succeeding," Sylvia warned, lowering her hands to the table. "The club itself is holding up—never have I ever been more successful."

"And look how _bored_ you are."

Sylvia gave him a look. Victor held up a hand in calm surrender, adding, "Am I wrong?"

"You're not wrong." Sylvia muttered, grimacing when he sent her a knowing smirk of his own.

He finished his lunch, closing the box, and looked at her pointedly.

"You remember the contracts we used to go on together," Victor said nostalgically.

"Hard to forget."

"You seemed to enjoy it."

"I _did_ enjoy it."

"You miss it."

"Mm-hmm."

"So break out of this dull routine," Victor encouraged. "Come with me. We'll do a contract, kill a few people, and then you'll be back to yourself in no time."

Sylvia leaned forward, saying, "You know I can't do that."

"Because of the election coming up."

"Because of the election that's currently in progress," She corrected. "I can't be going around, killing people, only to pop up on a podium and try to sell that my husband is the best candidate for mayor despite his wife massacring a thousand of Gotham's civilians."

"Ooh, a _thousand_ ," Victor joked, grinning. "Man, you really do need a vacation, don't you."

Ignoring him, Sylvia continued: "Even if Oswald wasn't pitting himself against Aubrey James for the mayoral candidacy, I'm still—you know— _pregnant_. I can't put myself in harm's way if it means putting _her_ life in danger too."

"So you're having a girl?" Victor questioned suddenly.

"What?"

"You said 'her'."

"I did."

"So you're having a girl."

"Oh…well, yes. I didn't tell you?" Sylvia asked incredulously.

"No."

"Oh." Sylvia mumbled. "I've been so busy…"

Victor smiled and he touched her arm, saying, "Don't worry about it, Liv. So…any names?"

"Do you really care about that, Victor, or are you just pretending because we're friends?"

"The last one."

"Then don't ask."

"Fine, I won't."

"Fine." Sylvia sighed.

Victor and Sylvia were silent for a moment.

"So you asked me to come see you for a reason other than to catch up," Victor offered, business-like.

Sylvia chuckled, "I guess I did. To be honest, I almost forgot."

"That's why I reminded you."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"You haven't happened to come across a girl named Ivy Pepper, have you?" Sylvia asked.

Victor blinked. Amusedly, he said, "You're concerned about a _kid_?"

"Yes, I am. Is that so outlandish?"

"No, I've seen you do more outrageous things than be concerned about some orphan." Victor resounded notably. "It's kind of funny, actually."

"What is?"

"You. Getting your hairs crossed over a kid. You've gone up against some of the nastiest people Gotham has to offer, beaten up people for lesser reasons, but when a kid goes missing, you're up in arms," Victor said humorously. "It's funny."

"Have you or haven't you seen her recently," Sylvia demanded curtly.

"No. I've not seen her. But between you becoming the next First Lady and on the verge of having a kid of your own…" Victor reasoned, "If I were you, I'd start focusing on those two things…and maybe start planning a mini vacation for yourself. Not worrying about—"

"I know what I have to focus on," Sylvia snapped. "Don't think I don't?"

"Priority check. That's all I'm saying."

"My priorities _are_ in order."

"Fine. _They're_ in order. If you say so." Victor said calmly. "I'm looking after _you_. Always have been. Remember, Liv? I walked you down the aisle at your wedding."

"An odd time to bring _that_ up, don't you think?" Sylvia responded, cocking her head to the side.

"Just trying to lighten the mood with nostalgia. Is it working?"

"Kinda."

"Good. Now, that said, I'm about to hunt down a man who owes a lot of money to Penguin," Victor said, standing up. "I'll happily extend the invitation if you want to come along for the ride…"

"…But I'd have to decline," Sylvia said whole-heartedly. "So have fun for the both of us, okay?"

"Don't have to tell me twice." Victor said, grinning from ear-to-ear.

Sylvia stood and walked him out. Before he left, Victor turned and hugged her around the shoulders. Surprised by the sudden display of affection, Sylvia let out a small laugh, not before hugging him back. He kissed her forehead, and then left the club.

As cheerful as she felt a moment ago, a looming dread replaced it.

No one had seen Ivy. Not a soul.

In fact, the people she had spoken to could barely recollect just who Ivy was until she had jogged their memory. Perhaps she'd have to face the music on this one.

It was likely that Ivy was gone for good.

**Chapter 32: Csilla**

Sylvia strode into the manor, unaffected when she saw that at least fifteen people inhabited the living room, along with blue ribbons and a banner that was planted on the wall that read 'Oswald Cobblepot For Mayor: 'Make Gotham Safe Again'.

Had she not been burdened with her own dissatisfaction of not finding Ivy, the scene itself might have been overwhelming.

Two or three other people were walking around, putting up more ribbons and balloons, talking amorously to one another about how Gotham would be a whole new city under the rule of their favorite candidate.

The normally empty elongated oak table was seated with six people, men and women who were answering their own corded phones, emphasizing the promises Oswald insisted on keeping in order to do what he vowed (making Gotham safe). The room was filled with ringing phones, the same loud chatter that would accompany it.

Upon her arrival, the couple of people that weren't busting ass on the hotline, noticed her and they met her with open arms.

"Mrs. Cobblepot, what do you think of these decorations?"

"—Mrs. Cobblepot, do you think these pins will do—?"

She minded them with a polite smile, but didn't offer them any suggestions or feedback on her end. She walked past them, and shut herself in the kitchen, leaned over the counter and rubbed her temples.

Was it bad that all she wanted to do right now was go to bed?

"How was your afternoon?"

Sylvia looked to her left from where the voice had spoken, and she peered at its owner with little enthusiasm.

It was Butch Gilzean.

"Long," she answered vaguely.

"Guessing the search for that girl didn't go well."

Sylvia straightened, placing a hand on the counter as she questioned, "How the hell do you know about that?"

"Penguin said you were looking for her." Butch answered, shrugging a shoulder. "Hopeless, in my opinion, but I like your determination."

"Get the fuck out of my kitchen, Butch. I don't feel like talking."

"Oh, man. That search didn't go well at _all_."

"Need I tell you twice?"

"No." Butch reassured. "You don't. I'm pretty sure if you really wanted to, you could just pick me up and throw me out of here. If you really, really wanted to, that is."

Sylvia glared at him, looking at him for a while before she rolled her eyes, and started towards the refrigerator. Half-haphazardly, she opened the door; the contents in its side shifted unceremoniously; rattling again when she closed the door after taking out a bottle of orange juice.

"Fine. If you don't want to get out of the kitchen, _I_ will." Sylvia told him frankly, leaving him behind as she strode out to the patio where there was no one else around to which she was very grateful.

Still, to her discontent, Butch followed.

She took a seat in the nearest chair, minding the chilly air before reclining back. He stood next to her, almost like a body guard, or maybe someone who was waiting to ask a dreaded question with dangerous consequences…like he was waiting for her to have a moment before he relayed some bad news.

When she opened her eyes, he was still there.

"What do you want?" asked Sylvia unhappily.

"Nothing, really. Just wanted to see how you were doing."

"You can't tell from my behavior?"

"Well, I can see you're mad." Butch noted, looking her up and down. "And you might want to be alone, but I'm also thinking that you might need to talk something out."

"You're not exactly the ideal 'shoulder to cry on', Butchy."

"I can be, if you wanted."

"Well, sorry to tell you this, but I'm not in the mood to talk. Or cry. So, you have my permission to leave." Sylvia muttered, closing her eyes and shifting in her seat.

"You remind me of Fish a lot." Butch conveyed carefully. "I bet you don't get that often."

"I get it a lot more than you think," Sylvia sighed. "Is that why you're still here? Wanna talk about her?"

"If you want."

"What I want is to be _alone_."

"I'm actually curious," Butch continued (Sylvia sighed sharply), "Why you don't have Demetri around you."

Despite her frustration, he was right. Demetri wasn't around her, and _that_ was odd, wasn't it.

"I'd normally be pissed by now," Sylvia said, sitting up, "but you have a point. Where _is_ he?"

"I don't know." Butch returned. "Probably making your bed, or refurbishing the bathroom."

Hearing his tone, she sent him a look.

"Hey," he said defensively, "everyone knows he's been trying to kiss your ass since you let him live. I'm just making suggestions here."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, stood to her feet, and started through the mansion. While Butch had mentioned Demetri in a passive-aggressive way (was he low-key jealous?), he had a point. Demetri would normally be on her heels the moment she came home, trying to service her in any way that was humanly possible, and yet, his absence had only gone unnoticed, until now.

She willfully moved through the living room where the countless fans fanatically answered phone calls, but didn't see Demetri in sight. Or Oswald for that matter.

And she thought the worst for a brief second.

 _Both_ of them were gone. Not in the manor…then what…

Suddenly, her brief moment of panic subsided when she saw Oswald and Demetri coming down the stairs.

Demetri had a pen and notepad in his hands, writing down everything Oswald was telling him. As they reached the bottom step, Demetri repeated back the information, then momentarily paused when he and Oswald saw Sylvia, looking up at them.

"Do you want to meet with the school attendant as well?" Demetri asked, smiling politely at Sylvia before turning to Oswald dutifully.

"It's inevitable at this point, Mr. Byrd," Oswald said confidently. "Might as well get that underway as well."

"Yes, of course, sir. And when were you planning on meeting with Mr. James?"

"Tomorrow. Afternoon, preferably."

"And if Mr. James insists on the evening…? You know how he can be, Mr. Penguin. A man like him…"

"My evenings are preoccupied," Oswald told him coolly, glancing at Sylvia, who smiled in response. "I'll be unavailable."

"And if he insists…"

"I have dinner with Sylvia every evening," He emphasized. "My evenings are non-negotiable, Mr. Byrd."

"Of course, sir. Also, a press conference is allegedly going to be held by Mrs. James…" Demetri informed, glancing between the two Cobblepots. "She has information that might cripple your campaign" (he glanced at Oswald) "about Miss Sylvia's past."

"If Mrs. James has anything negative to say about me," Sylvia interjected coolly, "She's more than happy to say it to anyone she likes…provided that they actually _listen_ to her." She crossed her arms, saying to Oswald, "I might just go to this interview myself."

"What happened to 'no longer expending any more energy', that sort of thing?" Oswald recalled.

"If she wants to make a fool of herself on television, in front of the media, that's her choice."

Demetri said uncertainly, "So should I call Gotham News and let them know that you'll be in attendance, or…?"

"When is it?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

"No, then."

"No?" Oswald and Demetri repeated simultaneously.

"That's right," Sylvia returned. "I'll be going with you to this dinner with Aubrey James."

"He specified that he wants to meet with Mr. Penguin alone," Demetri reminded.

"Then he can meet him alone…with me."

Oswald sighed, "I'm more than capable of handling myself, Pigeon."

"I'm more than aware of that, but I still don't trust him." Sylvia said coolly. "Besides, anything he wants to say to you, he can say in front of me. If anything, he wants to try and intimidate you out of this election or blackmail, and if he wants to play games, I'm more than happy to play. Besides…I'm bored."

Oswald rolled his eyes, saying, "You have plenty to do here," and he gesticulated to the people surrounding the phone lines.

"Politics." Sylvia corrected. "I told you before: I don't do politics. I have no interest. But meeting with someone like Aubrey who wants to meet my husband alone—now see, _that_ interests me."

"No harm will come to me," Oswald promised in an attempt to persuade her.

"You bet it won't." She reassured.

Demetri glanced between them uncertainly; seeing as there was no way to deflect Sylvia's overprotective nature to something else, Oswald told him that Sylvia would be in attendance, and therefore, her presence at the interview with Mrs. James would be one of absence, instead.

Demetri scribbled a few notes down, then asked, "Is there anything else you'd like me to do, Mr. Penguin?"

"No thanks. You've been more than helpful."

Demetri gave a short bow of his head and then left shortly to accomplish his other tasks. When he did, Sylvia looked after him, then grinned knowingly at Oswald, who gazed at her coolly.

"So you finally caved." Sylvia said sheepishly, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Oswald took her hands and placed them on his chest, saying, "He was insistent."

"And you caved." She repeated, smirking. "I told you he just wants to be helpful."

"And so far, he has been."

"I'm happy you've started coming around."

Oswald kissed the back of her hand, and she beamed at him.

"How was your search?" He asked gently.

Sylvia's face fell.

"It was a fruitless endeavor," Oswald told her.

"But not a hopeless one," She reminded. She hugged Oswald around the middle, putting her head on his shoulder. "Ivy didn't really have anyone, you know. I was probably it. But no one has seen her. And it's been a long time."

"More than a few weeks."

"Long enough, then."

"So what now?" Oswald asked, kissing the top of her head.

"I don't know." Sylvia murmured, her voice muffled with her face in his suit. "I don't know what else to do."

"Perhaps there's nothing more you _can_ do," He offered.

"Perhaps not."

A moment passed during which Oswald just held her, knowing that Sylvia was feeling helpless and not in such a way that she would like. With all the power, and resources she and Oswald had, there was still little chance in her finding the orphan, and that seemed to take out any hope she might have had left.

"Have you been thinking of names?" Sylvia asked, lifting her head so she could look up at him and meet his eyes.

Oswald smiled guiltily.

"Not really," he admitted. "The campaign has really stole my attention."

"I've thought of one." She uttered quietly. "But perhaps it's too early to tell."

Hearing that she had a name in mind, Oswald's eyes lit up with interest and curiosity. He wrapped his arms around her waist, moving her closer to him if that was possible.

"Tell me." He said softly.

"Well…you know, I've been thinking." She said gently. "Your mom was Hungarian. I felt it was only fitting to have our daughter's name be Hungarian as well."

Oswald smiled saying, "What is it?"

"Csilla."

"'Csilla'?"

"Mm-hmm. C-S-I-L-L-A. The 'C' is silent." Sylvia said shortly, grinning up at him. "Her middle name would be 'Trudy'. After your mom."

Oswald gazed at her, transfixed, nearly.

"I'm not a mind reader, Oz. You have to tell me. Do you like it?" Sylvia asked.

"I love it." Oswald whispered, grinning widely.

Sylvia gasped quietly when he suddenly kissed her, but she melted into it. Tender, loving kisses followed. When the kiss broke naturally, their lips still lingered, as though the idea of leaving the other's embrace would be too painful to bear.

"How long do these campaigns typically go on for?" Sylvia mumbled.

"A few months, if not longer." Oswald answered.

"Do these people leave at the end of the day?"

"They will, yes."

"Good. I don't care to have a few bodyguards prowling about, but having this many people in the manor is kinda creeping me out." Sylvia admitted. She kissed his cheek, and added, "Plus, I don't mind it so much but I'd like to have sex later on tonight and I don't think you'd be comfortable having all these people hear us upstairs."

Oswald grinned at her.

She was so shameless, but how he loved her for it.

Author's Note/Disclaimer: For everyone's awareness or curiosity, Csilla is pronounced as it would be in the name "Priscilla"…but it is not to be mistaken for a nickname in this story. I know the spelling can be pronounced other ways, but this is it :) Let me know if you do too. :)

**Chapter 33: Inglorious Basterds**

To say that Oswald was interested in meeting Aubrey James was an understatement. Since his phone call was received by one of his many volunteers answering his landline, the suggestion was as titillating as it could be.

The meeting place was public. It was a casual diner, renowned for its top-selling and specialty dish, meatballs and spaghetti. The sauce was what made it so delectable and memorable.

While it was Butch who drove him and Sylvia to the diner, it was only the two of them who entered. While James had anticipated his visit, the man looked less than happy to see Sylvia accompanying him. Oswald could have objected to Sylvia's demand to be present but the argument would've left him empty-handed and tired.

He hadn't bothered talking her out of it on the way here. By all means, the woman had more than made up her mind. Still, she'd done him the favor of dressing up, wearing a cocktail dress herself with an off-the-shoulder feel, and a color that was redder than her own hair.

As they approached Aubrey James' table, the man frowned.

"You were supposed to come alone," James said unhappily, glancing with an expression as unenthusiastic to Sylvia, who grinned innocently.

"Oh, believe me," Oswald assured. "I tried to come alone. But, as I'm sure you've learned in your prior dealings with her, Sylvia is determined in everything she does."

"To include attending dinners without an invitation," James added. "Your reputation proceeds you."

"It's only because of _your_ reputation, Aubrey," Sylvia retorted, "that I felt the need to come at all."

"Well, as flattering as that is—"

"—Oh trust me, it wasn't a compliment."

"Have a seat, either way." James grunted, gesturing to the chairs.

Oswald pulled out a chair that was beside Aubrey James, smiling when Sylvia took the seat happily. Oswald sat across from her, left hand on the table while his right sat atop his cane, pointedly feeling at ease while Sylvia glared at Aubrey.

"A public place," Oswald told James, "Smart."

"Knowing your flair for the dramatic, I thought it necessary," James responded casually as he continued finishing what was left of his meal.

Oswald smiled: "How flattering. But why exert myself needlessly? The public sees me as a man of action. You…you are yesterday's sad joke."

Sylvia smiled inwardly.

"While Galavan humiliated this city, where were _you_? In a warehouse with a box on your head." Oswald pointed out.

James sighed coolly, and said with the same frigid tone, "You're an unstable lunatic, Penguin, and people are going to see right through you. I've got the judges—"

"—Corrupted," Sylvia uttered.

"—The unions—" James continued, glaring at her in annoyance.

"—Not as dirty—"

"—The GCPD—"

"— _Very dirty_ —" Sylvia chirped with a dark smile.

"—And a whole team of legal experts behind me. What do you got?" James challenged.

Oswald smirked, leaned forward and said with little worry, "I have _me_."

"And that's it," James returned. "Aside from this one" (he inclined his head to Sylvia) "and let's be honest, she's just as insane as you are, if not more, you have no one else. And the world will see it. Let's face it: You're psychotic!"

Oswald suddenly stood, slamming his hand on the table. And just as he did, several employees, including waiters, waitresses, and even the bus boys, clamored out of their stalls, away from their tables, and kitchen utensils to suddenly pull a gun on Sylvia and Oswald, who, when they did, looked at James with a calculating stare.

"Not this time, Penguin!" James told him. "My head will not be put in a box again."

Oswald glanced at Sylvia, who smiled at him readily. Then to James: "Ooh, _you_. So smart. Always two steps ahead. Never three…"

But nothing happened. James looked around, at his staff, who appeared just as confused, then to Oswald, who was smirking at Sylvia.

"Have you ever seen 'Inglorious Basterds'," Sylvia said calmly to James, who looked at her suddenly with a fear. "There's a scene that I love most in that movie. I'm sure you'll be able to tell me what that scene is…if you look down."

James peered downward, slowly.

His eyes grew wide.

"That's right." Sylvia purred. "You have all these guns aimed at my husband and me…but you've not even noticed _mine_. I've had it out now for the past five minutes, and it's aimed straight between your legs. So…tell your men to put down their fucking weapons, or I will shoot you _."_

"For what reason…" James mumbled, looking down to see that what she said was true.

"Aside from threatening him and me? I'd shoot you on principle for calling my husband 'crazy'." Sylvia said slyly, smirking at Oswald, who proudly took a pin out from inside of his jacket and placed it on James' suit.

"Relax," Oswald reassured. "I do not want you dead. Besides, what kind of fun would an election be if I was the only candidate, huh? You're right though. I _do_ need a little more help. And I have _just_ the right person in mind."

"I'm still down to shoot him if you want," Sylvia offered.

"No. It's over, dear. Let him go," He said lightly.

"Really?"

"Sylvia…" He cautioned.

"Fine, fine," Sylvia sighed. Once the employees had lowered their weapons, Sylvia slowly put the trigger back, and then stood.

James glared at her, saying, "You're definitely crazier than him. You know that, don't you."

"Oh without a doubt," Sylvia said happily.

"My wife is at a press conference right now," James said just as Oswald and Sylvia were walking out, "And she's telling _everyone_ what people you _really_ are!"

Oswald sent Sylvia a cool, calculating glance, which she returned. After a moment, James had wished he hadn't spoken his threat so loudly. For a second, it appeared that Oswald was going to sic Sylvia on him. Then, surprisingly, she rolled her eyes and walked out of the door with Oswald moving right behind her.

Once in the car, Butch started the engine and the limo casually was on its way.

Sylvia sat in the back seat with Oswald, who looked at her plainly.

"Do you have my bullets?" Sylvia asked airily to no one in particular.

As though on call, Butch reached into the glove compartment and handed her the magazine; Sylvia took it thankfully, popped the bullets in the chamber of the Glock she had used to threaten Aubrey James, and placed it in her purse.

Watching her do this, Oswald asked, "Why did you leave the magazine in the car?"

"I'd be tempted to shoot the man, if I didn't."

"So if I'd given you the 'go head, you'd have been unable to kill him."

"I'd be able to kill him—I don't need a gun to do it. But I knew you wouldn't let me kill him anyway. I was just saying it for showmanship."

Oswald chuckled, "It wasn't loaded at all."

"Not even one in the chamber," Sylvia sighed proudly. "It's all mind power. James fell for it."

"Yes, he did."

"Before you go by Arkham, could you drop me off at my club?" Sylvia asked. "I've a guest that's going to entertain tonight and I need to make sure he has everything he needs."

"Of course." Oswald said as he kissed her cheek.

Author's Note: I admit, I've had this scene planned in my head for _at least_ a year since I started writing this story. I'm so happy I could write it!: D

**Chapter 34: Hypnotized**

In _Lean on Vee's_ , Jervis Tetch sat at the bar on a pew, grateful for the drink he'd been given ('compliments of the house', a young woman had told him), as he waited for his hour. While he might not have come so early on his own dime, Sylvia had insisted. And, as many were learning, it was hard to say 'no' to such a strong-willed woman as she.

Sylvia sat at the bar with him, drinking a club soda.

"No balloons, no magical dust. No mirrors of any kind. Not even a dove or two…" Sylvia mused, looking at him. "What kind of magician are you, really?"

"A magician, I am not," Tetch said wisely. "As my business card suggests, I'm a hypnotist. My craft is the power of the mind, and what a simple suggestion may do if one's mind is free and uninhibited… _that_ is the act."

"'Uninhibited'," Sylvia repeated, chuckling. "Being a hypnotist, are you able to make someone do whatever you want?"

"Only what they themselves want to do. Deep down."

"And how do you know what that is if you've never met them?"

"It's a super power," Tetch responded, flirtatious. "It's really amazing what some people want, deeply."

"You've met me a couple of times now."

"That, I have."

"What does your 'super power' say about me then?" Sylvia asked coyly.

"My dear, I doubt you'd want to know."

"Oh, you 'doubt' I'd want to know, huh? Well, I most certainly want to know now."

Tetch looked at her curiously, saying, "You're not at all like your brother, Jim Gordon, are you, Mrs. Cobblepot."

"Mm. I think you've lost your super power." Sylvia said, smirking at him. "On a contrary to what you think you know or have seen, my brother and I are _very_ much alike. Our prospects, on the other hand: Night and day."

"So alike," Tetch offered, "that you two may want the same thing, perhaps?"

"Meaning?"

Tetch said mysteriously, "Nothing, of course. I meant nothing by it. Just playing the field, I suppose."

Sylvia chuckled, "You're barking up the wrong tree, then. I'm happily married."

"With a child on the way, it appears." Tetch said ingeniously, glancing down at her then adding, "Boy or girl?"

"Girl."

"Only a few months away from the big day, aren't we?"

"Something like that."

"Now don't feel as though you must be so guarded around me," Tetch assured wistfully. "I'm not dangerous at all."

"This is Gotham," Sylvia told him, unconvinced. "Everyone is dangerous. Even the ones who say they aren't—those are the people who really are…at least, more than the rest of us."

"No offense, my dear, but _you_ are dangerous as well."

"No offense taken; it's the truth."

"So should I be more precarious about being alone in a club full of your more bruiser-like associates," said Tetch, glancing over at Gabe, Dagger, and Chilly, who were bouncers at the club. "Or perhaps" He smiled, "I should be more wary of a woman who possesses such a natural beauty as yours."

"You've got a silver tongue, Tetch." Sylvia said coolly. "I won't deny that. But," (she stood.) "As I said, you're barking up the wrong tree. I want no one else but my husband."

"Even on a subconscious level?"

" _Especially_ on a subconscious level," Sylvia said, winking at him.

"And if I wanted to test that level of confidence?"

"I'd invite you to try, but you would only fail. And I doubt that would pave the way to more shows."

Tetch nodded respectfully, holding his drink to hers. "Then a toast: To the shows that pay my way through this magnanimous city and the hostess who has taught me humility through my own arduous endeavors."

They clinked their glasses.

Within the hours that proceeded to follow, _Lean on Vee's_ steadily became a packed building. All seats were filled, and some of the guests had taken to even standing at the bar or around the club, along the staircases, and around the second floor, leaning over the rails to watch the Great Jervis Tetch perform.

Sylvia was in the crowd, minding her own business until a hand touched her shoulder so lightly, she wondered if she'd been touched at all. She turned to see Barbara Kean standing behind her, wearing a beautiful, long royal blue dress; a strand of pearls around her neck, and mesmerizing streams of turquoise sequence lined her dress that reminded Sylvia of ocean waves and aurora lights.

Barbara's hair was pulled up into a ponytail, the end locks braided into a stunning French plait. Shimmers of pink and blues covered her eyelids. To say she was stunning was an understatement.

"Well, well," Sylvia greeted, "Didn't think I'd see _you_ for another few weeks."

"I heard you booked Tetch for a night," said Barbara, shrugging. "Thought I'd come to see what kind of show he'd wow _your_ guests with."

"And where's your lesser half?"

"Tabitha decided to stay behind," she said, another small shrug following.

"Guess she's learned she's not welcome anywhere around me," Sylvia uttered crassly, smirking when Barbara smiled at her.

"Eventually, you'll learn to like her."

"When Hell freezes over, maybe."

"Or you'll just get over it."

"She killed my mother-in-law, Babs. There's no 'getting over' that."

"Fine then." Barbara sighed. "At least you still like me."

"More than I care to admit."

"'More than you'd care to admit', _I bet_." Barbara said sweetly, wrinkling her nose playfully at her. "I haven't forgotten that kiss you gave me in front of everyone: Tabitha, Butch, even Oswald. I was hoping it'd happen again."

"Tabitha wouldn't like that, I imagine." Sylvia suspected coolly.

"What doesn't she like anymore?"

"Having problems between you two?"

"Small debates, no problems."

"Small tiffs, no arguments," Sylvia corrected. "Same thing to me."

"There's no getting the last word with you, is there?"

"You've known me for a time, B. You should know that by now."

"Has anyone told you you're like Jim?" Barbara questioned, slightly annoyed.

"Some people have said we're _nothing_ alike." Sylvia returned, thinking of Tetch.

"Well, I guess they don't know you and Jim like I do, huh."

"I guess not." Sylvia agreed. "How's your business? Surviving?"

"Thriving. Yours?"

"Same as usual."

Barbara glanced at her, over all, saying, "You're starting to show more."

"Yep."

"You're having a girl, right?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Let me know if you need any baby clothes. Jim and I were always thinking we'd have one…went ahead of ourselves and bought a few things. Shit happens, and here we are. So, I have them still in my apartment, if you'd like them," Barbara said casually. She put an arm around Sylvia, bringing her closer. "We wouldn't want that sweet baby of yours wanting anything, right?"

"Sure." Sylvia said, unconvinced. "Because you certainly care that much about Oswald and me."

"You're right. Maybe it's only you. After all, we have _history."_ Barbara whispered. She gently caressed Sylvia's face in the palm of her hand, her thumb ghosting over her chin before she kissed Sylvia's cheek, and then said promptly, "Phew! I think I'm going to get a drink."

"Help yourself." Sylvia said, gesturing her forward. "The bar's open."

"Thanks, babe." Barbara responded sweetly, and she left her side.

Sylvia watched her, feeling as though she might have missed something in the conversation that had just happened, and yet not feeling completely unsafe prior to it. Shaking it off, she proceeded to walk to the center stage, standing under the spot light in a knee-length, dark green sundress.

She picked the mic from its stand and addressed the crowd: "Good evening! How is everyone today?"

Hollers and whooping calls came from all around her.

She said inventively, "Today, we have an attraction: a hypnotist. He's fairly new to Gotham but we will all soon know his name by the end of today, won't we? Everyone, I introduce you to the Great Jervis Tetch: Hypnotist Extraordinaire."

As he was introduced, Tetch proceeded to walk from behind the curtains and took the center stage, smiling at Sylvia warmly.

"Thank you, Lark," he said lightly. "Thank you, everyone. Um, actually, if our beautiful hostess doesn't mind participating in my first act…I'd be more than grateful and humbled."

Sylvia had started to leave the stage, owing to give the floor to him, but hearing him, she turned and walked back. Whispering, she said, "If you're thinking of delving into my psyche, you have _no_ idea what you're going to find, Mr. Tetch."

"By all means," He uttered, "The more you try to warn me, the further you pique my curiosity."

Sylvia sighed, rolling her eyes, and she waved at the crowd as she remained on stage with him.

"First," said Tetch loudly as he continued to do his act, "I will place our Lark under my spell, and hypnotize her. However, I _would_ need the lady's consent."

Sylvia gave him a look saying, "Isn't it better to try and take it than ask for permission?"

The crowd tittered. Meanwhile, Gabe, Dagger, and Chilly glanced at one another suspiciously; Barbara, who stood at the bar, peered at everyone else with little amusement.

"Alas, my dear, regardless of what is better, I _do_ require your permission to put you under."

"As long as I don't need an affidavit, fine. You have my permission," Sylvia said coolly. She leaned into him, whispering quickly, "Do _not_ do anything that is even the slightest bit dangerous or anything that would involve my child; otherwise, I _will_ come after you. Understand?"

"Understood." Tetch promised. "I will _not_ harm your child."

"Fine. Do what-have-you then." Sylvia said, closing her eyes.

"Actually, I'll need you to keep those beautiful eyes of yours open."

Sylvia opened her eyes, saying, "Alright. They're open. Now what?"

"Now look into _my_ eyes. Not above them. Not around them. But deep into their center…"

As he said so, Sylvia did. Tetch held up a pocket watch, its face open to her; the ticking seemingly louder than a normal watch. And fast too…then it became slower, and slower...as though it synchronized with her own passively alive heart beat.

Then her eyes closed.

Barbara took a sip of her tequila, watching Sylvia's eyes close. Sylvia stood on the stage, arms at her side, relatively relaxed. Needlessly unbothered by the world around her or its fragmented reality.

"So, our dear Lark is now completely hypnotized," Tetch said proudly. "What would we have her do?"

"We could have her tell the truth."

The voice came from the back, the _very_ back. Tetch squinted his eyes to see who the person was that had spoken so boldly, and from the crowd was Mrs. James, wearing her usual tight bun, and a beige colored jump suit that seemed to fit too snugly along her hips and legs.

"The truth?" Tetch said curiously, standing in front of Sylvia. "So, my dear woman, you'd have us delve into her mind, her heart, her true psyche to discover… _what_ exactly?"

"What her true crimes are against the city," Mrs. James stated unhappily. With little dictation, the woman approached the stage, shooing some of the more unruly goons out of her way without much consideration for her own safety. "This woman is running against my husband for mayor—her husband, sir, being Penguin: Oswald Cobblepot."

"Yeah!" growled one of the guests. "We know who the Penguin is, y'old coot!"

" _She_ ," Mrs. James said harshly, pointing at Sylvia, "has _many_ a time come to the public and accused my family of being corrupt, of being dirty. Well, it is time to show that she has done _countless_ crimes, more than the rest of my family is even fully capable of. I have my reporter, _here"_ (she drew the crowd's attention to a measly man who was at least half her height) "to document these proceedings!"

Barbara rolled her eyes and drew attention to herself as she said coldly, "So, basically" (Mrs. James glared at her) "You're going to attack my friend when she's most vulnerable, in a way that she won't be able to defend herself, because you feel subjugated. Is that it?"

"No! She says she has 'nothing to hide'," Mrs. James stated coldly. "It's time to see if she's been honest. _Well_!"

Tetch looked at everyone else, waiting for a disagreement. Waiting for any one to object.

"Miss Kean," said Tetch, waiting for her to disapprove. "You seem to have this Lark's best interests at heart. Do you wish to proceed?"

"If Lark says she has nothing to hide," said Barbara passively, "Then I guess she has nothing to hide. Do what you want."

Tetch smiled widely, and happily gestured for Mrs. James to come on stage. Righteously, she did, holding her head high, chin almost exposed to the roof top as she stood beside him.

"I am at your mercy, Mrs. James," said Tetch, bowing dramatically to her. "And, by definition, so is our hostess. Please proceed. And, my dear Lark" (he touched Sylvia's shoulder) "by all means, _do_ tell."

Mrs. James watched as Tetch stepped out of the way, gesturing to them.

"Sylvia," Tetch said softly, "When I count down to one, you will answer Mrs. James' questions in whatever manner you see fit, just as long as you speak the truth and only the irrefutable truth. To be clear, you will not in any way harm yourself or anyone else. In three...two…one…"

Sylvia opened her eyes, and turned to Mrs. James. Seemingly lucid, but otherwise alert.

Mrs. James glanced at Tetch uncertainly. And Barbara couldn't help but smirk. Even while Sylvia was under Tetch's spell, lucid, restrained by her own subconscious, and otherwise vulnerable and hardly dangerous, Mrs. James was _still_ afraid of her.

"Go on, Mrs. James," Tetch encouraged. "She's harmless, I assure you."

"Cobblepot," Mrs. James sniffed. "What crimes have you committed."

Sylvia said lightly, "Since when?"

"Since…well, since ever?" Mrs. James said curiously. "I mean, when did you first start committing crimes."

"In general, or specifics?"

"In general, I suppose."

Sylvia said flatly, "I robbed my first gas station when I was fifteen."

"And?"

"And _what?_ "

"You've done other stuff, then."

"Yes, I have."

"So tell us about that, why don't you."

"You asked me to tell you when I committed my first crimes, 'generally' speaking. What else do you want to know?" Sylvia said calmly, although the crowd was tittering, knowing their hostess would have easily snapped at the former mayor's wife long before this moment had she been in her alert and awake state.

Mrs. James, clearly stinted by Sylvia's lack of usual open-book mouth syndrome, said halfheartedly, "Tell us everything you've ever done since your first crime."

"That will take a few hours," Sylvia admitted.

"Tell us anyway."

"Actually," Barbara interrupted, "not all of us have a few hours to kill. How about just telling us the darkest deeds you've ever done, Liv."

The crowd agreed.

Sylvia looked at Tetch pointedly. He said calmly, "Do as they wish, my dear."

Mrs. James hissed at her reporter, "You better get your pen ready, Damien!"

The reporter put his pen to the notepad, steadfast.

Sylvia said calmly, "When I was younger, a boy consistently harassed me. To get even, I falsely accused an 18-year-old boy of sexually molesting me when I was 17 years old. He was tried and convicted as an adult and served 10 years."

Barbara chuckled.

"After my brother left our family to join the Army, I was angry for him leaving me. I lashed out, and I beat a dog to death." Sylvia continued, her facial expressions slightly changed from pensive to minutely distressed. She added in spite of the murmurs, "After, I buried him in my backyard. I never told anyone about it."

"These are your darkest deeds?" Mrs. James questioned.

Sylvia said coolly, "I'm working my way up to it, you fucking twat. Shut the fuck up so I can answer your damn question, won't you?"

Mrs. James glared at her then at Tetch, saying, "I thought you said she was going to be civil!"

"I said she could answer your questions in her own way," Tetch returned lightly from the sidelines, "And that she would harm neither anyone else nor herself. The fact that she expresses herself in cruel euphemisms and curses are hers alone."

Sylvia continued, "When my brother came back from the Army, his high school sweetheart, Danielle, was supposed to be waiting for him." (Barbara looked at her curiously, having never heard _this_ about Jim.) "Unknown to my brother, Danielle was cheating on him. So when he was on the bus home, I snuck into Danielle's apartment, and I beat her within an inch of her life. Her family was scared of me, so they ended up moving cities. To save my brother from heart ache, and to cover up the fact that I had nearly killed his girlfriend, I plagiarized a note, made it seem like Danielle had written that she had moved and he had to move on. Jim believed me."

Mrs. James said, "This is all nice and everything, but let's touch on some murders, why don't we."

Sylvia smiled, saying, "Murders in general, or ones that the public would consider 'overkill'. See what I did there? Puns."

"Murders that you would never tell the public."

Sylvia tilted her head to the side, saying, "I've killed people because they went against my family: be it my parents, my brother, or my husband. I've killed people because they called my husband names no wife would want to hear about their loved one. I've killed people because my husband asked me to, because they would hinder his plans or mine for the future of Gotham, or because I felt like it. If you want to know something in particular, Mrs. James, I suggest you try asking specific questions."

Mrs. James stepped towards her, angrily, "You're such a dishonest woman, _aren't_ you. Such a horrible person…"

"I'm petulant, insubordinate, rude, crass, and any other word you can think of," Sylvia admitted. "But if _I_ am dishonest, then you are **_so_** much worse."

Mrs. James looked as though she might blow a fuse. She stammered, "What was your mother like?"

"My mother did not want Jim or me. She despised my father, hated her children, despite our wish to be loved and beloved by her. She paid back our love with selfishness which led her to her becoming a drug addict, and abandoning us. Later, Jim and I soon discovered that she completed suicide, finding death a better suit than her own family." Sylvia replied flatly.

"Your mother sounds psychotic. Like you."

"My mother felt unloved and useless," Sylvia returned calmly. "She felt hopeless in a world without hope, and empty in a world without love. She behaved as the world had trained her to behave, and she lived in a way that she thought was best. I loved her without condition and without mistrust; and she abandoned me. If a mother's psychosis is any indication of what her daughter will become, I fear I have little hope in proving to you that I'm _not_ psychotic. And if I'm crazy, I can guarantee my daughter will be too."

Barbara smirked as the crowd muttered, nodding. Mrs. James grinned widely, hearing Sylvia admit that she was insane, and her daughter would be too.

"Even if my mom, myself, and my daughter are crazy," Sylvia said softly. She stepped towards Mrs. James pointedly. "At least we're not fucking liars."

Mrs. James sniffed, shuffling in her position unceremoniously. Loudly, she announced, "What _other_ atrocities have you committed, Mrs. Cobblepot. Tell us!"

"After some of Maroni's men tried to rape me," Sylvia said pointedly, "I got down on my knees, sucked one of them off until they were fully erect, and then I bit his dick off, and shot his testicles off with a gun. Did that last year, if you really wanted to know."

Mrs. James coughed, and Barbara nearly spit out her drink. Tetch, on the other hand, appeared amused as ever.

Sylvia continued, amidst the chatty crowd, "Prior to that, a girl named Tiffany Rubberdale used to work for me until she and several of my other employees were taken down by the GCPD. Tiffany's fiancé, Burke Drifas, was an abusive asshole. I poured scorching hot tomato soup over his head, watched his skin boil from the inside out. I had him taken to the pier where I ordered my men to cut off his arms and legs, and then drown him in the river."

"Keep going, baby!" Barbara shouted, encouraging her.

"One of my guards who was ordered to protect me…I beat him until he couldn't move and he was so psychologically damaged, he could no longer work for me. His name was Tomas." Sylvia said with little restraint. "A long time ago, maybe a couple of years, Fish Mooney had a new Umbrella Boy, a man named Timothy. Once we were done interrogating him, I took a paring knife and sliced him from hip to hip, and his entrails fell out all over the floor."

"One more, Liv!" Barbara cheered.

Sylvia said with a smile, "I made one of my employees cut open their arm and give me an artery to prove that they're still loyal to me. And, funnily enough, I _still_ don't completely trust him. But he seems to love me for it."

By now, the crowd was riled, people glancing at each other, unsure of what to think or what to say except to say that they were stunned or otherwise intrigued by Sylvia's slew of confessions.

"You come up with all these reasons to defend yourself," Mrs. James sneered. "Whether that was because they attacked your family or otherwise. You ever do anything just because you felt like it? You ever kill a man because you felt like it?"

"Personally," Sylvia said quietly, " _selfishly_ , I'd kill anyone if I **felt** like it, Mrs. James. Babies…men, women…grandfathers and grandmothers alike. All of them are simply dead to me, if given the right mood. And personally, again, _selfishly_ , I'd feel no remorse if I killed you, Mrs. James."

She started towards her, walking carefully, and yet in a trance as before.

Sylvia said darkly, "You, a person who is so fucking _weak_ and _callous. You,_ a person who thinks they can just whip their dick out anywhere and think that everyone and _anyone_ will simply bow down to you based on the fact that your husband was—at one point—somebody in this town."

Mrs. James nearly lost her balance as she was so close to the edge of the stage, stooping down so she was on her knees, hands raised above her to flail off Sylvia's dark admissions.

Sylvia chuckled, "Oh yes, I would kill you in an **_instant._** I'd go a step further, actually. I'd fuck my husband on _top_ of your decaying corpse, and I wouldn't lose an _ounce_ of sleep over it. Because you are nothing to me, to anyone else, not even to your fucking husband, and I'm pretty sure you and everyone here knows that. And I'd kill you because I felt like it, but not just because of that: but because everyone and _anyone_ would fucking love me for it. And if you think I'm wrong, ask them…" Sylvia slowly raised a hand, pointing to the crowd around her.

Whether or not she actually knew that she was standing on stage in front of at least fifty people was still up for debate, but Sylvia—whether or not she knew it—subconsciously knew what she was doing and to whom she was speaking.

"Fascinating." Tetch whispered.

"Why don't you kill me now." Mrs. James squeaked, looking up at her from her crouched position.

"Because…" Sylvia uttered flatly. "I don't feel like it."

Tetch chuckled, clapping his hands. Just as he did, Sylvia turned to him curiously, but not before Mrs. James quickly got down on the ground level floor and ran out of the club while she still had an inkling of self-respect left; her reporter was running directly behind her.

Barbara smirked, saying, "Mr. Tetch!"

"Yes, Miss Kean."

"See if you can't get her to fall in love with you or something." Barbara said knowingly. "I'd like to see a little Frenching before I leave as well."

Tetch chuckled saying, "I doubt I could make Sylvia do that, Miss Kean. As I've mentioned before, she must want this on a subconscious level…"

"Don't know if you don't try," Barbara said, shrugging, grinning madly. "Aren't you just a _little_ curious yourself?"

Tetch observed her for a moment before he turned to Sylvia with resolve. He put his hand over Sylvia's forehead and she became quite still.

"My dear Lark…you've finished answering the mad woman's inquiries...If you could do one last thing for me."

"What is it?" Sylvia asked monotonously.

"I do appreciate your candor and your patience, my dear," Tetch said appreciatively. "You're like the best subject a man like me in my profession could ask for."

The crowd chortled in response.

"When I count to three, you will be irrevocably in love with me. Madly in love—so in love, you won't be able to contain yourself." Tetch said dramatically. "In…one, two, three..."

Sylvia opened her eyes.

"Sylvia, my love."

She turned to him in question.

"Do you love me, Sylvia?"

"No." She answered calmly.

The crowd let out an amused chuckle, and 'oohhh!' Barbara grinned broadly as Jervis Tetch looked nearly taken aback. However, he wasn't discouraged. He put his hand on her shoulder, then gestured for the audience's pleasure, asking, "No? Are you being coy, my dear?"

"No…" Sylvia said quietly. "No…"

"Do you like me a little?"

"No…"

"Perhaps you do," Tetch said curiously, "but your heart is burdened by another."

"Or maybe you're just a terrible hypnotist," Sylvia returned with a small smile. Her smile disappeared as she closed her eyes, tightening them as though she was growing tired and needing to clear her vision. "I told you…I told you…" She gritted her teeth, grunting, "I…told…I told _you_!"

"Told me what, my dear?"

Something in her suddenly snapped. She blinked, and then smiled at Tetch. The smile reached her eyes.

"You tried hypnotizing me," Sylvia told him pointedly, "Tried to get me to fall in love with you. Didn't you, Mr. Tetch?"

"I _have_ hypnotized you." Tetch announced. "You're hypnotized. Right _now_ , in fact."

"You mean, I _was_." Sylvia hissed. She kicked him in the shins, adding, "You're a son-of-a-bitch, you know that. What the fuck did I tell you in the beginning, huh? I don't want any other man, deep down or otherwise."

Tetch rubbed his leg where she'd kicked him. The crowd laughed.

Instead of flying off the handle as he had expected her to do, Sylvia simply stood on the stage, waiting for him to gather his affect.

"You are the only person I know to have ever broken out of my spell," said Tetch, amazed.

"Well, I wish I could say the same. But you're not the first person who has tried to make me question the affection I have for my husband," said Sylvia satirically. "If you want to keep your show going, you're more than welcome to but **I** will not be a part of it."

She left the stage, followed shortly by Gabe who appeared concerned.

"I need a coke." Sylvia muttered, grabbing a can of Diet Coke from one of the bartenders, who quickly gave her one.

" _Liv_ ," Gabe began.

" _I'm_ _fine_." Sylvia said shortly before heading out the back.

**Chapter 35: Ed's Back**

In the following hours that passed, there was an article in every newspaper that documented everything Sylvia had told Mrs. James as the reporter had written everything down as he'd seen and heard while the former was under a hypnotic state, entranced to speak only words of truth.

Sylvia was in bed, asleep. Whether it was because she'd engaged in such an emotional affair while being under Tetch's trance or whether that was because the hypnotism itself could be so mentally exhausting, Sylvia had barely gotten out of bed for the whole day except to go to the bathroom.

At her side was Demetri who read the newspaper documenting the Cobblepots' (as the paper called it) 'Most Humiliating Reveal'. He sat in an armchair within the master bedroom, glancing at her only when she stirred unceremoniously in her sleep, or when he hadn't heard her move in a good amount of time.

He read the same paragraph over and over. The newspaper article had documented each of his mistress' confessions with an itemized number. One confession in particular discussed his own trial, Sylvia's own words quoted: 'I _made one of my employees cut open their arm and give me an artery to prove that they're still loyal to me. And, funnily enough, I still don't completely trust him. But he seems to love me for it.'_ Those were her words, spoken.

"Did you mean any of that?" Demetri mumbled, more to himself than to her.

"Mean what…"

He startled, glancing up to see Sylvia slowly sitting up, rubbing her head with the heel of her palm.

"What time is it…?" She asked groggily.

"Almost afternoon," Demetri answered dutifully, although he still couldn't keep the pain of betrayal from his own voice. "Miss Sylvia, do you remember much from yesterday?"

"I was hypnotized," Sylvia murmured, the 'h' word was slowly becoming one of her least favorite words. "Why?"

Demetri handed her the newspaper. Sylvia gave it a once-over, realizing what had happened. Basically, she'd come clean to the entire world, including her own Gotham City. And the confessions—good fucking lord, the _confessions_ she had made to not only her own people but to Mrs. James and the newspaper reporter!

All of them were listed.

Hurting Jim's girlfriend—Lord, she'd have to answer to that one soon if Jim was still reading the newspaper…The sexual assault falsifying to seek revenge on her teenage antagonist…chomping off one of Maroni's men (did she ever really forget that though, not necessarily)…Killing off Tiffany's husband…hurting her own staff, poor Tomas…and there was just more and more.

The confession to literally kill Mrs. James and have sex with her husband on top of her body made Sylvia stare at the article a little longer. _Had_ she really said that? Did she really _want_ that, really?

"Oh my fucking god…" Sylvia whispered. She looked up at Demetri, who watched her with the saddest puppy dog eyes deemed possible.

"You said you trusted me." Demetri told her. "You said you forgave me…but really, you don't trust me at all, do you?"

"Demetri…" Sylvia began, but could she really come back from that? What she had confessed, that had been real spoken truths—at least from her subconscious. "I _do_ trust you…"

"You were hypnotized," Demetri said sternly. "You were told to speak the truth. The 'irrefutable' truth, as Tetch proclaimed. You said you don't trust me."

"I said I don't trust you 'completely'." Sylvia reminded. "I still do in some fashion, then, don't I?"

"I opened my _arm_ for you! I literally took out one of my arteries, and you still don't trust me."

"Darling, don't you understand what I'm trying to say? I don't trust _anyone_ in some type of fashion. I barely trust Butch or Gabe, for that matter—I can barely trust even my own friends, even Jim sometimes. You're not any different than them." Sylvia said, slowly climbing to the edge of the bed so she could meet him.

Demetri crossed his arms, unconvinced.

"Yes," She said quietly. "A part of me still thinks you'll betray me. That's because despite everything I've done for you, you would have still allowed yourself to betray me based on whatever Delilah was telling you. That part of me is never going to let that go."

She touched the underside of his chin, tilting it up so he was forced to meet her eyes.

"You're loyal to me…for now." Sylvia said gently. "That's all that matters now, Sweetheart."

"You trust me, then?"

"I do."

"You still want me around?"

"Of course, I do." Sylvia insisted. "You're helpful. You're sweet. You've been helping Oswald with so many of his errands, and you've helped me a lot too. Yes, I still want you around."

"Okay…so all that stuff in the paper…"

"It was true, but only to a point." Sylvia returned sweetly.

Demetri smiled and he hugged her. She hugged him back. He left her side so she could get ready for the day.

When she was dressed, Sylvia left the master bedroom, and steadily walked through the corridor to the kitchen where she reached inside the refrigerator and grabbed a glass bottle of orange juice.

"Hey, _Liv_."

Ed's voice threw her off.

Sylvia screamed, "FUCKING CHRIST!" and she dropped the bottle of orange juice; it shattered into glass shards on the kitchen tile, spilling juice on it, Ed, and herself.

She was leaned against the kitchen counter, her back against it while she grabbed the place her heart used to be, and steadily caught her breath. Meanwhile, Ed looked thoroughly pleased with himself while simultaneously remorseful for having scared her so badly.

"What the fuck, _Ed_ ," Sylvia snapped when she finally got her bearings. "Why are you here—where—where the fuck did you even come from?"

"Arkham," Ed answered, gesturing to himself. "I clean up nice, do I not?"

Sylvia looked him over, only now realizing that he wasn't wearing the Arkham Asylum generated wear that all inmates were distributed prior to becoming a prisoner. Instead, he wore a black-over-charcoal gray pinstriped, three-piece suit; same colored dress jacket over a white collared shirt, and dark blue tie. His hair was pulled back handsomely, and the smile was cunning as he was intelligent.

"Excuse me." Sylvia muttered. She turned her back, and laid two of the kitchen towels down on the floor, stepping on them so they could absorb the juice quicker.

As she did, Ed rubbed his own suit with a wet wash cloth, offering the same to her since she had spilled juice on herself as well. Sylvia declined.

"I guess Oswald was able to get you out," Sylvia said pointedly, gesturing to and facing him.

"It was the quickest trip to rehabilitation one could ever ask for."

"You're not rehabilitated."

"No, I'm not. But my certificate says I am."

"Fascinating." Sylvia said, unenthusiastic.

"Weird."

"What?"

"Well, I thought you'd be more elated," Ed said curiously. He added with less certainty, "You and I are still in a truce, correct?"

"Unless you've done something to harm my brother or anyone else in my family, then yes, we are." Sylvia answered stoically.

Ed surveyed her for a moment.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" Sylvia questioned.

"Nothing. Well, not 'nothing', but if you don't mind me saying, you don't seem to be yourself." Ed noted calmly. He gestured as such, "In fact, you're acting really odd."

" _I'm_ acting odd."

"Yes."

"Me."

"Yes."

"I'm acting odd," Sylvia chuckled quietly. "Well, if I'm acting odd, then _you_ are on a whole other scale, my friend."

Ed sent her a look.

She smiled weakly, muttering, "Sorry. You're right…"

"Care to explain?"

"Explain what?"

"Why you're acting odd," Ed emphasized.

"I was hypnotized yesterday," said Sylvia frankly. "The 'Great Jervis Tetch'. Snide, over eager, little…Anyway, he was able to get inside my head, and…Fuck it, here. Read for yourself." She handed him one of the newspapers that had been sitting around, left no doubt by the other people who were inhabiting the manor prepping for Oswald's campaign.

Ed perused the newspaper and its articles, reading one in particular that focused solely on Mrs. James' impromptu visit to Sylvia's club after an interview with the Gotham Gazette that had literally gone no where in succeeding in 'outing' Sylvia and Oswald's true personality. The visit itself, the article continued, proved to show just what type of person the allegedly 'new first lady' really is like, and what more may be expected if her husband were to take the position of Mayor.

After he read the article, Ed looked up to see Sylvia's smile depreciate to an expression of self-loathing. She sat at the kitchen table, holding a new bottle of orange juice in her hand; her head was on the table.

Ed sighed, and he sat beside her.

"It's not nearly as bad as you think." He said gently as he put the paper to the side and touched her arm.

"'Not nearly as bad'? Ed, did you even read the damn thing?" Sylvia asked, her face still on the table. "I practically spilled my guts to everyone and anyone who can read or listen. I confessed to murder—probably in every degree possible. I'm surprised the GCPD hasn't come banging on my door to arrest me."

"'And this, too, shall pass.'"

Sylvia looked at him: " _What_?"

Ed grinned, saying, "A most powerful eastern Persian ruler who called his sages to him, including the Sufi poet Attar of Nishapur, asked them for one quote that would be accurate at all times and in all situations. The wise men consulted with one another, and threw themselves into the depths of contemplation, and, after much toiling for it, finally came up with the answer. So saith the quote: 'This too, shall pass'. The ruler was so impressed by it, he had it inscribed in a ring."

"What's your point, Ed?" Sylvia asked tiredly.

"People work for you, still?"

"Mm-hmm. So?"

"So that means everyone in the Underworld basically knows who and _what_ you are."

"Yes." Sylvia returned. "I guess that's true."

"So," Ed reasoned, "that's basically half of Gotham. More than half, actually, if my calculations are correct."

"So more than half of these people think I'm a piece of shit. They know what I know, now. Brilliant," Sylvia groaned. "Thanks for that."

"That's not my point at all," Ed laughed.

"Okay…"

"The people in the GCPD _also_ know what kind of person you're like."

"Not all of those people know what I've done." Sylvia reminded with a whine. "Harvey knows _some_ , maybe _more_ but he only thinks I might kill people for the fuck of it. At least when I go waltzing into the station, people genuinely greet me and think I'm a good person."

"And now that they know, do you think any of them—Harvey Bullock, Captain Barnes—will think any less of you?" asked Ed pointedly.

Sylvia shrugged, " **Maybe**."

"Literally, more than half of the people in Gotham are corrupt. They know who and what you are. They call you 'Lark' in Arkham, and I've heard the name through the streets and when people talk about you." Ed continued, grinning broadly.

"I can't help but feel you liked saying that."

"The public already knows half of these confessions, and there's a **third** of them that are so trivial that they don't even matter _now_." Ed said, pointing to the article in the newspaper. "What you did as a child—that was almost twenty years ago. Beating a dead horse, if you ask me."

"But Ed," Sylvia whined, "I told Mrs. James that I wouldn't mind **killing** her or fucking Oswald on her dead body—that doesn't exactly hold a candle to a good reputation."

"And in the article," Ed reminded, "you told her that no one would care if she was dead. That wasn't an opinion. It was the truth."

"It's what _I_ believe to be true." Sylvia argued. "Because like a sheep I did what Tetch told me to do. To tell the truth. My truth."

"The ' _irrefutable'_ truth," He specified. "That means a truth no one would argue, debate, or at least care enough about _to_ debate."

Sylvia looked at Ed, who grinned just as easily at her as he did when they first met. Like he was waiting for her to get the well-intended joke. But didn't she?

"So…" She muttered. "I haven't cost Oswald the campaign?"

Ed clapped her cheerfully on the back in response: "If anything, I think you might've pushed him towards it. Honesty isn't a flaw."

"It can be one though."

"Only if you're a lawyer," Ed joked.

"You might be onto something," Sylvia giggled.

Ed patted her back. She sat up, and leaned into her chair.

"So what finally broke you out of the trance?" asked Ed conversationally as he stood and brought back a few crackers and slices of cheese.

"Wanting to know that answer for a while, haven't you," Sylvia said mischievously.

"I do love answers."

"You like riddles."

"Those too."

"Well, to answer your question: Tetch did, accidentally at least."

"How did he do that?"

"He tried to give me a scenario during which I was irrevocably in love with _him_." Sylvia said carelessly. "In the same day that I'd turned him down."

"The scenario didn't work, I'm assuming."

"You assume right. I broke out of the trance, like **that**." She snapped her fingers. "Wasn't hard."

Ed chuckled lowly, "I suppose if he tried hypnotizing you into loving _me_ , you might have had a harder time breaking out of the trance."

Sylvia glanced at him warily. At first, Ed might think she was going to strike him in the face since he'd reminded her of his enamored feelings for her that were incidentally bottled inside, but instead, Sylvia smiled in spite of herself, and ate a cracker with a slice of cheese.

"I suppose I might've." Sylvia conceded, side-glancing at him as she tossed it back with a sip of orange juice.

"You look good—er, great, by the way," Ed said quickly, gesturing to her in general.

"Thanks." Sylvia answered. She licked her lips of the salt from the crackers, and added, "I've been having to buy more clothes because of Csilla."

"Who?"

"The baby." She explained.

"Oh, the baby, right, right," Ed said, nodding. "How's she doing in there?"

"Well, she's not in a five-star luxury suite, Ed. I guess she's doing fine."

"I don't know. I think being in any part of you would be luxurious." Sylvia blinked and when Ed realized what he'd said, he cleared his throat, muttering, "Boy, that did _not_ come out in the way I had intended."

"I would have hoped not," Sylvia laughed nervously, smiling in spite of his humiliation. After a moment of what was awkward silence, she stood, saying, "I…um…I better go see if I can't catch Oswald before the media gobbles him up. He's a busy man, you know."

"Of course, I understand. I'll see you around, I guess." Ed said, standing when she did. After she smiled and quickly left, he sat back down and literally facepalmed. "Foot in mouth, Ed…both feet."

**Chapter 36: Somewhere Only We Know**

Two more months passed.

In that time, Sylvia and Ed had become something of a team in keeping Oswald ahead of the mayor.

As previously noted, Sylvia wasn't into the politicking part of the world. Instead, she preferred to deal with the lesser characters that revolved around in the Underworld. While Oswald was still performing as the King of Gotham, his role in the Underworld, had to go underground…but it was very much alive. She would go to her club, schedule to have the Families meet when Oswald could be pulled from his mayoral campaign, and they'd conduct business until Ed called and mentioned that the press and the other media were wanting a random-ass conference, and so he'd be pulled to the political world where, then, Ed would control the aspects of the schedule.

In some ways, Oswald was tossed around from one advisor to another, Ed and Sylvia serving in different roles but typically in the same aspect in each world. And if not for either of them, Oswald was certain he might have lost his mind with meetings and gatherings, parties, obligations being thrown at him from all sides of the court.

During that time, Sylvia's belly grew.

Her clothes no longer fit, having gained an extra twenty-seven pounds! Her back was achier, and one day she'd have no energy but in the next she'd be bouncing off the walls. People from across the room who hadn't even known her could tell that she was pregnant, and steadily, it wasn't only Oswald who had grown more protective of her.

Gabe, Demetri, Dagger, Chilly, and even Butch, kept a close eye on her whenever she was out in public; either in her club, at a meeting with the lesser characters of the Families, or even at a press conference where Oswald would go head-to-head with Aubrey James, outmatching and outsmarting one another in their future promises for Gotham City.

The campaign had been a grueling match, overall. With the baby so close to coming out, Sylvia wanted it all to be done.

After yet another press conference, Oswald had come back to the mansion, entering the master bedroom to see Sylvia gathering two diaper bags together, full of the diapers, clothes, wet napkins, and many other items that had been generously given to her by the population, as well as from the Five Families' families.

Her soft grunts as she straightened and small sighs of exhaustion as she squatted in an effort to put everything 'just so' before the departure to the hospital in preparing for the baby's arrival made Oswald walk towards her, taking her arm and gently moving her to the bed.

"What? I'm _fine_ , I can do it," Sylvia insisted. It wasn't the first time he mistook her sounds of effort for ones of pain. "I'm fine, Oswald. I'm _fine_."

"If you move anymore…"

"The baby might fall out of me—you've said that plenty of times," Sylvia reminded, grinning despite the situation. She lied back on the bed, hands on her belly. "I'm just ready for this whole thing to be over, honestly. I can't wait to move around and do what I've normally done. It's been nine months since I've done _anything_."

Oswald sat beside her, placing his cane against the wardrobe, and undoing his jacket so he could be more comfortable doing so. His hand gently squeezed the sides of her knee, and it made her giggle.

"Stop, you know I'm ticklish!" Sylvia said, smacking his hand away.

"How are you feeling otherwise?"

"My back aches, but heh, what's new."

Oswald stood and crawled into the middle of the bed; as she watched him curiously, Sylvia joined him. He gestured for her to turn and she sat in front of him, legs crossed awkwardly but comfortably in front of her. She'd long ago forgone the use of wearing dresses, preferring sweatpants or elastic capris in favor of the formal wear.

Silently, Oswald massaged her shoulders and ran his hands over her lower back, digging in deep enough to find her aching muscle, pressing down and hearing her soft, quiet sighs of content and relief.

"One thing I look forward to," He said lightly, "is the freedom of doing more than just this."

"We _still_ can have sex…It's never off the table."

"I don't mind this show of intimacy."

"I'd rather fuck you in terms of intimacy."

"We tried that, remember? Yesterday, actually."

"I'm just saying," She mumbled. "I can never say 'no' to you. It's just uncomfortable for the time being. Besides…I found other ways of making you happy." She craned her head back, winking at him: "You've not complained once."

"You make me happy in every aspect of our relationship."

"Such a gentleman's answer."

"And yet, true."

He leaned forward; she reclined back, and he wrapped his arms around her front, his hands on the topmost section of her belly; her hands lightly caressed his knuckles. They were quiet for a moment, and in that moment, Csilla wiggled a little. Oswald let out a small laugh, always captivated when Csilla recognized his touch, differentiating between him and her mother.

"Do we have enough clothes?" Sylvia asked, suddenly concerned. "I only counted…fifty in each bag."

"We have enough, and more." He reassured, kissing her ear. "Even if we didn't, I'm certain Demetri has become well-versed in shopping for infants, he'd be more than capable of finding more."

"Not just him."

"Of course…"

"Barbara has helped too, mind you," Sylvia said, smiling. "She's actually been very supportive, you know."

"I _do_ know. It wouldn't be because she harbors some adolescent-like crush on you, do you think? Or that she has you to thank for the prosperity of her club to begin with," Oswald responded, unable to hide his own passive disdain. "I still don't understand what possessed you to give her such a substantial amount—"

"She's just grateful, Ozzie," Sylvia pacified. "She's been supportive of Csilla, and gave her all the baby clothes she and Jim had at her apartment. That accounts for nearly twenty or thirty of those newborn outfits. Not to mention the crib, the car seat…"

"I get your point, Pigeon."

"Okay, well, you know, just saying in case you think she has some ulterior motive for helping us."

"I think she _does_ have an ulterior motive."

"What is it, then?"

"I have no idea." Oswald said suspiciously. "But she has one. Trust me."

"I trust you, sweetie."

Sylvia sighed, leaning further back into him so her head lied on the front of his shoulder. He looked down, seeing the contentment on her face, the way she relaxed her eyebrows and her eyes.

"How's Ed doing?" asked Sylvia, opening them so she could peer up at him. "He seems to be taking the reigns as your personal mayoral assistant rather easily."

"I think he has fun with it, to be honest."

"Well, you know what they say. You don't work a day in your life if you love what you do," said Sylvia, shrugging modestly. "I think he doesn't mind Demetri trying to help him either. Demetri looks up to him so much, what with him being intelligent and insanely organized, I think he might have a crush to be honest."

"Demetri likes Ed?" Oswald asked incredulously.

"One could see why. I mean, _I_ can."

Sylvia bit her bottom lip the moment she said it. She felt Oswald tense behind her. She slowly looked up at him, knowing she'd see a hard look waiting for her to peer up at, and sure enough…well, while he didn't appear as jealous or betrayed, he _did_ seem put off by her casual comment.

"I'm just being transparent," Sylvia said tactfully. "He's handsome enough, smart enough, fashionable enough. A young man like Demetri or anyone his age would revere Ed."

Oswald sighed, hinting for Sylvia to get off him. Reluctantly, Sylvia did and she looked at him reproachfully. He stood, looking at the diaper bags as though pondering their own existence before he returned his eyes to her.

"You said you don't have any feelings towards him." Oswald stated factually. "Long ago…"

"I still don't," Sylvia insisted, sitting on her knees. "He's a friend to me. Just that. Nothing else."

"Are you certain?"

"Are we to have the same discussion any time I remark on a person's attractiveness?" Sylvia asked tiredly, frowning slightly when Oswald appeared more tense. "It was an _innocent_ remark, you know."

"We won't have to have this discussion about everyone you comment on, of course not," Oswald replied coolly, but that frigid tone still ebbed in and out. "But, as you may or may not recall, you once held a certain reverence to Edward yourself."

"'As I may or may not recall'?" Sylvia repeated defensively. She moved off the bed, grunting slightly when all of her weight pulled on her belly as gravity took its turn. "You make it sound as though I just _randomly_ forgot about it. Oswald, yes, at one point or another, I fancied Ed. I was attracted to him, _yes_ , but that was **before** he framed my brother. And yes, he did kiss me, and no, I didn't exactly stop it, but I renounced my feelings for him soon after, if you _may or may not_ recall."

"You feel nothing for him?" Oswald asked firmly.

"I have only platonic feelings for him, Ozzie. Please, why must we have this argument? We've been together long enough, surely you wouldn't feel so paranoid?" Sylvia asked tiredly, stepping towards him. "He's worked with you and me for at least two months. I mean, for heaven's sake, we've lived under the same roof. Not once have I ever tried to get in bed with him, or anything more or less sordid. So why is this an issue, _still_?"

"I don't know," He responded, surprising himself.

"You don't know?"

"I don't."

Sylvia moved towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck, smiling encouragingly up at him in hopes that her spirit would somehow hush the suspicious voices in his head.

"Do you think yourself inferior to him?" asked Sylvia gently. "That I would love someone else, _anyone_ else, besides you?"

Oswald said nothing but looked at her with the answer in his eyes.

"Tetch tried to hypnotize me, you know." Sylvia said quietly. "Tried to hypnotize me into believing that I was somehow in love with him: a powerful illusionist."

"I know how much he enjoy illusions and magic." Oswald returned, disgruntled.

"But you know what happened?"

"What…"

"He couldn't," She whispered ardently. "He tried to, but I broke out of the trance almost immediately. Do you know why, darling?"

"Can't say I do."

"Because I could love no other man, but you." Sylvia told him, lightly brushing her fingers under his chin and caressing his face between her palms. "You are the only man for me, Sweetheart. You, and no one else. Not even a renowned hypnotist could convince me otherwise."

Oswald watched her for a long minute. The minute seemed to stretch on for hours in Sylvia's world, but then he smiled, feeling more like an idiot that he had questioned her love for him.

"I'm sorry, Pigeon," He uttered quietly. "Sometimes, a man gets insecure."

"For good reason, but there's a place in your heart that only I can fill. And when you feel uncertain, or afraid, you know you can always go there and find me. And you can feel me there, can't you?"

She touched his chest with her hand.

"Of course I can," Oswald reassured, covering her hand with his. "Can you feel it in yours?"

"I can feel you _everywhere_ , darling. And it's a special place."

"Is it?"

"It's a place, alright. It's home. And it's a place somewhere only _we_ know."

**Author's Note: End of Somewhere Only We Know. I'll be uploading some of Enter the Villain but I won't upload the full story until it's completely. If you'd like to read it either way, you can view the story on my ffnet account where I upload my chapters. The link is below :) Thank you so much for reading. Let me know if you liked it XD 

<https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13156712/1/Enter-The-Villain>


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